Sliming about me in the udon way, you mustn’t realise how easily I could sink canines into your office-work softened, white, wheaty skin and guzzle you down gullet, gone.
When you sometimes look away before I meet your gaze, is it for my perceived benefit?
You don’t look afraid, even while I finish my noodles first, carry more bags of groceries, nurse and nourish your weaknesses under the cloak of my own.
See, I’ve been taking care. Telling you the eternal untruth: “It’s ok”, making comfy. I feed you, in this way, to feed myself (surely the psychological equivalent of when you, in bored chivalry, pay for everything we do together).
The ego is sick and the breath we share in your apartment is most plagued.
But we incubate. We’re ‘good right now’. You ask me to move in.
Rolling a soupy broth around in my mouth, savouring its full and simple flavour, and the dribble down my chin, I think:
“I’d have your cum dribble down my chin.”
But you don’t even know where I am.
And you’d never meet those words the way I’d like you to.
The way you slurp recalls the caution of a prude forced to lunch messily in public, wanting to get it over with, unseen.
It makes me angry, and you soft, like the most tenderly treated sashimi.
I’d bite through your udon flesh but for how the slither seems to suit us in Sydney.
You bind me with broth-sponging tentacles.
We dwell in soup together,gazing in placid wonder at egg-white flotsam, kelp ribbon, a sodden karaage crumb.
Udon swimming, we are made the same, not separate, and it’s the closest I can be to you.