Office Hours

We have talked of high notes and long chapters over congealed ribbons of pasta in tepid wide trays between us. The red glaze of heat lamps; we have never yet been closer. Your eyes a deep blue. As far 
away as the horizon or the ocean floor. With such depth.

I will loan you my dog-eared copy of that slim volume?

Yes, yes. You would like that.
 
You will visit me. Knock on the door frame. Pointed
teeth. You will open the book across your lap. I will lean over 
your shoulder, my breast barely glancing your cheek. Trace a finger under my favourite sentence across your thigh.