Terracotta

You’re drinking the wax he’s seethed for you, frothing the stained-glass flute in which his grandmother hoarded lavender talcum. Do you feel guilty yet? The wax is filmy with salt; not his first Saturday frittered with waiting on you, tilted towards the street. Last week the flat was cold and you chipped candles with a blunt butter knife. The bathroom door was bolted and he was asleep in the tub fully clothed, clutching the duvet corner between his knees, fabric stroked all night from ivory to sepia, and in the stairwell you crosshatched honeycombs savagely wanting to leave your mark, knowing you’d fail. In the morning, he boiled your tea in a saucepan sprinkled with cinnamon and chilies. You couldn’t remember where he kept the toaster. You’d stolen a sack of sugar he didn’t touch, but halfway down the lane you turned to watch him coiling from the window, sugar sack snug against his chest, then bisected with the tallowed knife, then exploded on the cobblestones. He was swarmed in seconds. You climbed on your bike and rode to the station. Do you feel justified yet? This week your lips have marbled; your bite stains him saffron. The bathroom door yawns; the tub empties. He’s awake in the bedroom soaked in his skin. He’s holding the duvet over his mouth with both his hands. The saucepan is full between his feet. Do you feel anything yet?