Over there, love?
It’s a bit like Florence... but brighter.
Sun’s always warm, fig trees always ripe, and your arse always perfectly framed in the kitchen window.
We have lazy mornings—
You in a long shirt, me with no pants, coffee in hand,
Imp watching us like we’re disgraceful.
Then there’s bath time...
Soap. Sponge. Bitin’.
You always throw the sponge at my head when I get cheeky,
But I never stop tryin’.
Evenings?
We lie under the sycamore tree with the kids playin’ nearby,
and I whisper filth in your ear till you swat me and say,
“Not in front of the fig tree, you daft sod.”
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