Tomato love

we spilled sphagetti on the rug, 

and nobody

picked it up 

we just kept fucking 

on the couch above it 

spill tomato sauce 

all over me. I don’t care

that’s how I want our love to be 

dirty 

and smelling a bit too much 

like

onions than either of us 

is comfortable with.  I don’t mind, 

as long as there’s some

sweetness 

to balance

out the spice 

I’ll be the linguini

to your fusilli, 

drape me

around 

the smallest of your bends, 

or the other way around— 

I like all kinds of pasta. 

we can draw a heart

in the tomato sauce, 

let it stain the carpet 

then twirl

me around 

the twines

of your fork 

 and eat me 

for breakfast 

lunch 

and dinner 

spilling red 

everywhere

and I touch 

and you touch

and touch 

and

touch and

smelling like tomatoes 

close the curtains 

if you want

we perform 

better in the dark 

anyway