To the man in my bed

It’s that time of year again. You know what I’m talking about. All that gushy, lovey-dovey stuff. Cards with hearts on, films with kissing couples and soppy music. Roses appearing mysteriously. Blog posts peppered with the ‘L’ word.

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So I may as well join in. Here’s a poem I wrote a while back:

To the man in my bed

If you were a piece of paper

I’d write my name all over you

till there were no spaces left.

If you were a broom

I’d sweep you through my dusty places

missing nothing.

If you were a bar of soap

I’d put you in my bath

and wash myself with you.

If you were a ball of string

I’d tie you round me

so tight you’d never be free.

If you were a matchstick

I’d strike you against my palm

till we both ignited.

But I’m quite content

to hog the duvet, tickle your feet,

make you cross then kiss you lots

and write you poems like this one.