and so we fall hand in hand into the next awakening hour

watch as our bodies spill from the bed to the floor

entwined as though knotted by a sailor 

there is a bird on the building opposite intent on watching our every move

and we fuck with our eyes glued to its own eyes 

just to prove we can 

every morning brings the pigeons with their mating dance

the males chase while the females run 

and other watch to the side 

are all pigeons straight?

it feels how it would feel if we were

when the football stadium roars into every thrust

cheering us on in their own fashion 

it feels vulgar to write about fucking you even though everyone knows that we do 

every child realises that once, their parents Did It 

every married couple broadcasts to the world that they've fucked and we all just accept it as something we have to know 

once it's established then it;s to be assumed, i guess 

not secret in the slightest but still very private

even when the pigeons delight in observing from their rooftop perches and there is worry about the neighbour and if they're at the kitchen sink because they have a direct eyeline with the bed and the curtains aren't shut 

it's totally natural and totally expected and totally fucking wonderful but still kind of feels like a secret that should be kept, but from whom? 

who is this mysterious knower who should not be let in on the joke? is it God? is everything about God really? even if you don't believe in one? 

there is a silence broken only by the sound of lips on skin and the heaving breaths of one who is satiated (carnally) and then over the breeze comes the roar of the stadium and under the door comes the pat of your housemate's feet and through the walls comes the rumble of the mainline train and you are not alone and you never were and everyone knows, including you