Crumbs

I thought I knew you.

I thought you

were the answer

to dreamed requests

the end

of undefined prayers

the key

to locked doors.

When we met there were traces of

chiffon

floating around your loins

and your presence

was as a breath

left hanging

in misty air.

But no,

it appears

I was deceived .

It transpires

that hair is involved

but not the luxurious ropes

from your head

but dark, curled hair

lurking in deeper recesses.

There is flesh,

and pores,

and sweat.

There are odours

that are not perfume.

There are sounds

that are neither gentle murmurs of

pleasure

nor moans of ecstasy

and some of these sounds

are shaped by other orifices

than your mouth.

It turns out that

sometimes

the things you touch

crack,

the words you speak

wound,

the promises you make

fracture,

the foods you cook

burn,

the phrases you coin

jar,

the projects you plan

seize,

the reasons you give

fail,

the people you meet

flee.

There are crumbs

in the bed

of you.