I will come to live with you. I'll remember to replace the cutlery all facing the same way in the drawer; and after rinsing the tomatoes, I'll wipe them dry; I will not snib the door, you won't find it open after we've been out all day. And I'll dust the top of your turntable and the base of your standing-lamp, and wash the scales of dirt from your neglected navel.
Every week, I'll give you this dream: You are screwing her, then she softens suddenly and your limbs sink through her as she falls apart like fresh, wet trifle. You stagger up, her flesh dropping from you. I find you, and wash off the other woman. Then I fold your big body, like the Pieta, across my spread legs, my arms bracing your lax neck and knees, and massage the hairy crease between your anus and balls till your penis fills like a watered, water-starved fuchsia stem and spills its beads of oil into my busy palm.
You will wake wanting me — the centre; a safe, thrilling place. The future, home and frontier.