Slow-Paced

I wanted to

love grey instead of brown,

at first.

To love

the grooves before the scratches,

the fire before lighting matches.

To read the middle of sentences.

And you remind me

to take the lid off before the pour,

that resistance to that gravity is futile.

To want this before wanting more,

and that the best touch is done with the

pupils.

Until all tales are told,

and our coffee grown cold,

until

what was supple is brittle,

we'll be dancing 

in the kitchen 'til morning.

Slow-paced.