Complaints Department

     

A very British apology, but I’m sorry,

you see, 
I wish to complain:

it’s about the way your lips insist

on pronouncing

my name; about the way that your tongue,

strokes, each sound,

and every letter

rolls around in your exquisite mouth;

the way it tingles my weakened spine, and the way your

coal-eyes, burn relentless, into mine,

I wish to protest about the loss of time, I suffer daily,

recalling your touch:

about the hours I recollect

your precious fingers,

exploring too much…no, too little - it affects concentration,

I chew on my lip,

walk the wrong way in the station,

smile at nothing,

ashamedly wistful,

hissing & whistle, unheard in my blissful, middle-distant haze;

missed train -

just gazing into memory and tasting your name

on my own tongue,

I swallow it down

eager and feverish,

impatience abounds –

I must get home to object to the sound

of your breath,

and your whispers,

that all loop in my mind,

the constant replay of your growls and your sighs,

…it is inconsiderate,

I think you will find,

to be in my dreams as I walk through the park:

I am not asleep,

it is not yet dark, and it seems now

I’ve forgotten the way – I object to these

enforced delusions all day – to reminders of you in a

scent or a sight, that steal my attention,

try as I might to work,

or to travel,

to hold conversation, when all I crave is satiation in

your arms,

and our own secret realm –

behind the front door, where everything melts,

and you wait,

as in a puddle,

I drip

my belongings, and a waterfall

of rain…

“Excuse me, sir,” I whisper,

“is the department for complaints?”