When caught with jam around your lips
that pause between a heartbeat and
and tense in halfway rigor mortis,
in the gall and wormwood sense of death:
you’ve dived too deep again.
You drown yourself and plea:
“Forgive me darling, please”.
She nods, and smiles –
And you’re breathless, frigid, left to catch
a second wind.
Cause it’s such a cinch
to brush the vintage grime of words
from chest and brow;
and crush the window-pane
to steal her apple-pies again.