Although you have, most probably, been repainted, there is always the chance of being original- strip back the layers, (I feel your age, buried, underneath the white) and when you are bare
Lightning flashes in the heat, twice, illuminating my curtains. In the cotton-wool silence I listen for thunder, defied. Under an empty duvet cover I am wearing nothing but a silk scrap, which clings
I lie, aligned, under the delicious moon perfectly, my left hand echoing my right - palmed to the flooded sky - and imagine (mouth tasting of ragged metal edge) that my breasts have become the peaks of stormclouds;