You can only be alone with me
when I am sleeping,
unhurt.
In the kitchen,
Cynic, sit and stare
at the pile of bread
crepey cheeks pickling
while stories unfold,
nothing you ever did.
Fuss and tuck,
usually,
but not now, not for this
when my face is yours
you can say how precious I am.
I am not moving,
would rather die.