A poem by Emma Filtness

I want to go back to your little red house with all the dead plants inside, take care of you. I want to make soup for you, cut thick hunks of bread for you, simple, hearty fare, no frills – you hate frills. We’ll put the dishes in the sink, perhaps give them a quick rinse, then pull two bottles of beer from the fridge. I’ll press my face against your jumper, feel the soft scratch of wool against my cheek, feel for your small breasts beneath the pearl of that iconic Faroese knit. I want to run my hands up under it, over the black cotton of your long-sleeved tee, and hold you there, against me, for a while, in near silence, the only sounds the tides of our breaths and your heart inside your chest. Your phone will vibrate with a call and it will be your mother coming between us, but you’ll tell her you’re busy and that you’ll call her back. I’ll catch your eyes and you’ll glance away, in that endearingly awkward way, before you settle yourself and look back, really, really look, your Baltic blues round and intense and once again I’ll reach for you only this time you’ll pull the jumper up over your head, t-shirt too, drape them on the butterfly chair in the corner of your living room, say Komme and take me to bed.