over easy (v2)

[beccaannk]

over easy
 
I once wrote a poem
about fucking
 
I remember only pieces,
but I’m fairly certain it was terrible
(the poem, that is)
           
the last lines read:
I want
Scrambled eggs for breakfast.
Now, now.
 
All this to say–
the morning after
when you asked
how do you want your eggs?
 
I thought of the chasm between your back and my breath
as I savored the scent of our sex
and you slept;
 
of your talk of Nietzsche
and relative truth – because truly
what the fuck am I
relative to you
anyway?
 
of your whistling laugh –
of whether I could come to loathe it;
 
of a wish
instead of a reply


Previous Version:

I once wrote a poem about fucking
 
I remember only pieces, but I’m fairly certain it was terrible
(the poem, that is, not the fucking)
           
the last lines said
 
I want
scrambled eggs for breakfast
now, now
 

all this to say–
the morning after
when you asked
 
how do you want your eggs?
 
I was thinking
of the chasm between your back and my breath
as I savored the scent of our sex
and you slept,
 
and of your talk of Nietzsche and his goddamned 
relative truth – because, truly
what the fuck am I
relative to you
anyway?
 
and of the whistling squeal in your laugh
and whether (so I might relish rather than regret its inevitable absence)
I could come to loathe it.
 
over easy
 
I offered
more as a wish
than as a reply