LOVE, as you would have it,
Comes first with a throbbing in the eye.
Behold that robe,
How intricate, so many-layered, so golden!
Some say it’s twenty-seven layers,
Others say it’s twenty-one.
But do I really care?
Do I really want to count?
This moment, my mood is all languorous and mad—
All I wish to ask you, sweet Madame, is this:
How would you like me to come to you?
Shall I bite you first, or pull, or tear?
I’ve never met any Madame so blasé, so cool:
You don’t even care what I do.
Etiquette can paint the painted faces of prissy girls,
But all you care about is the real mess that love makes.
Today, I choose to pull you apart,
The other day, I disrobed you layer by layer—
Not as fun to eat you this way,
But pleasing to the fingers, perhaps the eyes too.
But my favorite is this:
When I bite you at your nether left,
You shatter into smithereens,
And flaky kisses go helter-skelter about my mouth.
Today, seven stuck their lips upon my upper lip,
The other day, one kissed the chin, and yet another, the cheek.
Ingrate lover Me, why do I sweep them all askance?
As punishment, those self-same kisses land on my lap.
I pick them up this time,
A gentle finger press, one dab at a time,
Till that one lone finger could take no more,
I send them all, your kiss crumbs, to my mouth.
I pick them all clean,
These frisky, frivolous, flaky kisses.
Even the ones on your naked white platter,
Every one awaits that dab-a-dab-dab of my finger.
So full of you now, my darling,
Your kisses, your robes, your body, your netherness,
I grow less mad, but more languorous,
Ready for a nap where all I shall feel in my body is
~ Vivienne Yeo
Croissant, My Darling
October 10, 2017
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