by Sarah Flint
He’s a closed book.
A hard back cover of control
Hides his story
Until a grin flashes across his face
And I hear the pages rustle.
A deep salty kiss lets me taste
The text with my tongue.
In the sweet sweat of bed sheets
I gently prise open the cover and
Start to unstick the pages
He lies wide open for me to read.
But it’s a short story:
I hear the slap of the book closing
Before I reach the end.
Sarah Flint is a solicitor turned gardener turned writer.