Two days old stubble, curls just covering your eyes.
I think your eyes are brown.
I speak, I nod, I’m yet to realise
I am about to drown.
Three, maybe four days, same old stubble.
I guess your eyes a lighter shade of brown.
I drink your wine that tastes like trouble.
You look me in the eyes and at my skimpy dressing gown.
Clean-shaven. Oddly satisfying.
Don’t care about the colour of your eyes.
A mere hug, another boundary untying.
Your smell I now can recognise.
Two days old stubble. I am yet to taste it.
I’m here. Make me close my eyes.
I am a sinner, but let’s face it—
The good ones rarely get a prize.
I like clean-shaven, I accept the stubble.
Like you accept pyjamas over a skimpy dressing gown.
That bloody wine got me in so much trouble—
I know your eyes are hazel brown.
