You sat on the end of my single bed and read one of my poems aloud. Held your chin up, met my eyes at every pause, caressed my words with your charisma. Obviously, we then fell into each other’s faces, grasped, and ground into my lumpy mattress, short-breathed and sublime. Afterwards, you asked me to pass your jeans, lying on the floor. They smelt funky and I wondered when you’d washed them last as I watched you wriggle into the legs.