Avoid the feeling like a puddle. Repressiveness;
what the British does best. Did I tell you that I might lay claim to
foreign lands or roots? That I might have ancestors that made Turkish boots?
Hover your foot over the surface, mimic me in silence
like the perfect mime. Stare me down like a cobra and unleash
some more longing. Starve me of your touch
Till I’m begging like the whore I want to be.
Try and dare to find out it’s true depths as it shimmers so delightfully
Drawing us in like the colourful transparency of a bubble
My fingers dance, stretching across this tiny wasteland of restraint
Yours twitch but don’t reach. Frustration.
The illusive space seems just as fragile as porcelain. I don’t want to break this
spell that I’ve cast over you lest you see all my imperfections too soon.
One day we’ll be brave enough to dip our toes into the unknown
And it’ll either be as shallow as a whale stuck in the harbour
Or. We’ll just keep falling further and further in love
and never reach the bottom. I need you
to say it back. Touch. Kiss.
– Little Ginge x