I read your messages aloud, letting your words fill my mouth. Fight is an underripe greengage, sharp and mealy. Wanted eats like buttered toast. Flush flows thickly like double cream; I drink it.
I feast on your words, sifting slowly through them, sucking toffee and biting into crisp apples. I don’t like whelks and swallow them whole.
I stop when I’m full of you. I rest, recall your words and their sequence, their sweetness. I write my favourite ones down – stuffing a notebook with chunks of hard Cornish cheese, bread crusts, berries.
When we kiss, I taste them all again.
Miss Molly, you're on a roll.