In a hotel room, on the other side of an ocean,
I imagine myself retiring to bed, local time;
the starched white bathrobe falls to the floor
and I pull back the covers
to find you
’ve eaten the management’s goodnight chocolates –
yours and mine –
as a prelude to a night in executive class.
You unwrapped my twisted paper,
you pulled apart my foiled wrapping,
you sank your teeth through my hard coating
and you sucked out my soft centre.
What are you going to devour next?
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