Don't Stop

Don't stop being exasperated
by stubborn computers,
cupboard shortages, forgotten errands.
When your cheeks rise scarlet from the bone
it looks like passion.

Don't stop questioning
my social white lies, that left unchecked
would crust over with mildew
like student flat grouting.
You slough off the worst
and though raw, I am clean.

Don't stop dancing, soft-limbed
timeless and unhip.
You're not
electro boy, slick, sharp in motion
as in suit, roboting,
examining the decor
of the ceiling.
Thank God.

And when I yank tightly on my mock-seagull brakes
at amber lights and you slam
into my back, a mass of metal, cables, tissue
and "AHH!", it feels
like you've run
through desert, tundra, fire,
spiked pendulums, leaping deathdrops,
racing tube trains,
smoking the soles off sturdy boots
to hug me aggressively,
arms wrapping round me
like warm bat wings -

Yeah, that. Don't stop that.