He calls her a woman,
And it's curious.
she still thinks of herself as a girl, a kid, an un-grown-up.
he makes her feel like a woman,
and likes to tease the girl-child that haunts her insides.
but, he says, you're a woman.
you share your headspace with a child and a grandmother
a mature, beautiful woman.
She looks in the mirror, and has no idea what he's talking about.

She calls him a man,
curiouser, and curiouser
because
She's never really met a man before:
not like she's met you, and all the lovely pieces that make you up.
but then, she doesn't know what defines a man,
other than six point three feet of
wonderful
and almost twenty years
of things she's never known.
All she knows, is that your tongue in her mouth is better than chocolate
and your hands on her hipbones
fit like velvet gloves.
It's in the way you look at her, that throws her off balance,
and the way you make your hair sit – up, down and to the left, sides pushed forward, then down
the lilting sort of long-legged grace that is you when you walk
This all makes mer lips break into a megawatt smile whenever
you make your presence known.

you respond to her
and don't tell her no.
And this is one of the things she likes most about you
even though it probably doesn't feature on that list you keep of what's appropriate
you don't push her away.
she loves – LOVES – being able to hold your hand
curl herself around you on the train, sit close to you in the car
because
the closeness is perfect
and the warmth sublime
no-one's ever done this for her, and so really
you're technically the first
and she adores you for it.

She sees your philosophy and raises you an ancient greek myths
does battle with your wits
and doesn't know who wins.
But the artillery is locked up,
because
she knows
you're already under her skin
and this means. That when you fight, it will hurt.
and hurting,
it not for the likes of women or men.


the first fight will leave casualties strewn over the battlefield like paper dolls and broken toys
and the carousel music will play on...