Washing rests listlessly in the sink
attracting drone of flies, kamikaze bombing
popping opalescent bubbles laying
languidly on cold, cold water.
mis-shapen legging clad rock and roll mother
switches off the click click clicking light,
tucking a stray hair behind her ear.
She does not blush as his eyes meet hers,
the contract they exchanged was nul and void
penetrated to her core, the second
his serene azure gaze undressed her,
saw beneath the rolling stones shirt
gone grey with wear.
Beneath her clothes,
liberated in cushion like beauty
battle scarred and tiger striped,
he does not see,
but leaves his lips to trace
the map of her life.
In his eyes, she is Diana
and for every night spent
savouring her wine,
relishing her voice,
This was written as a response to falling asleep in the middle of Fifty shades of grey. Guys, sometimes you don’t know how precious something is until it’s no longer there. Who needs Grey when I have Jon Snow. So