Weekend verses.

Fruition

Ripe is the night
to sever our hips,
to unfurl the locked fingers
and unbuckle the kiss.

Ripe is this night
to come clean and confess,
to unshoulder the burden,
admit we want more than
this fruition of boredom,
the equation of us.

Ripe is the night
to let lips re-acquaint,
to talk in nostalgias,
exhuming I love you's,
sandwiched in sheets
and cwtched under covers,
resuming our throne
as the meant-to-be lovers.

Will the night ever ripen
to slice us in two?
When the kisses core hollow
and the mattress sags sallow,
when the sleep of your face
is decrowned of a halo.

Ripe will that night be
to rip up the twinning
and become whole as a half,
leaving love and its tedium.

        .......Rhian Edwards's adventurous debut collection, Clueless Dogs.