My heart is an oligarch: A staunch, pot-bellied, knuckle-cracking middle-aged man lounging carelessly, lazily  in his sitting room with his limbs spread out on a settee

The first pulse, in the midst of a whipping maelstrom, 

Do you want my hands / Will they be enough to keep you warm

It is impossible to distinguish when, but I think My loss of faith coincided with your arrival

"Love" did not have me at 'hello' Nor does it cure the cries

Words have crashed onto your shores

Kissing strangers only feels good

Your gaze, a dagger, cuts through me

I needed to de-escalate.

There are no clocks inside this house. The walls are quiet, the windows loud.

Your tea in the kettle, piping hot water/ No sugar, so that you can really taste the tea on your tongue