Douglas HaikuMature

The smell of teabags;
You hate my teas with passion,
Yet make daily cups.

The sound of Bristol;
Your put-on accent shames you,
But it makes me laugh.

The sight of your hair;
Your eyes obscured, work undone;
Love your messy mop.

The sweet taste of salt;
Your sadness, your sex; all for
My sharp, hopeful mouth.

The feel of home, yet
Not-home; shaken, you embrace
My still-trembling form.


We each know Heaven,
By private names in our hearts;
I call mine Douglas.

The End

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