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My lover read Demon Copperhead,
out on the headland, his eyes -
voracious beacons of light.
He was eighty, uttered sonnets in the local pub,
orchestrated Shakespeare in the gardens of his home.

My lover lent me High Fidelity,
one Winter when the snow fell so thick I sunk boots
into the depths of Suffolk plains.
I read it between coffees,
in a record shop that reminded me
of that place I had no reason
to ever return to.

My lovers gave me collections for my birthday,
ones they thought would speak to me,
gold that kissed pale pages, their scrawl between the bind.

Some connect with humans through touch, through the ability to peel off their armour and lay down as if there's a God they can bow to,
I met my Gods in fables,
I know my lovers by tongue.