Pass-me the salt
Her eyes they're quite centrally placed|
And remain focused on the present
And nothing looks to escape her view.
But mine are bulged looking back at you
Like you're a rich delicatessen store
I marvel at every crease and wavy curve.
I long to taste, what I don't fully-deserve
And what's more, you've only
Just began to wet my appetite.
Pass-me the cruet, the salt, please!
And I'll crash like a wave that'll lick
And lap up that golden coastline.
I'll make her eyes look and gaze and stare
Eternally into mine
The way, I now gaze into hers.
By Mark Heathcote
© 2018 Mark Heathcote
(All rights reserved)