Ice cream on a sunny day

The morning I opened my face onto the draw of your existence, I knew I was hooked. I woke up in your bed the wrong way round, spoons in a draw nestled head to head, the big one clinging to the little one like a pigeon hugging a safety raft in a storm. A tiny bird and the queen of carrot flowers, the one  curled into the softness of the other and together scooped up into a delicious, forbidden ice cream, strawberry and mint chocolate chip together. Your scent is oddly soft and clean, a light dusty pink smell. I don't dare to kiss you, but I gather up a purple scarf and coat nestled at the end of your bed, waiting patiently to be worn home. At my door, the key won't turn in the lock. It's so bright, this weather, this sun, kissing my neck and sucking drops of sweat from pink ears. I feel a little blinded by it, the unthinking glass keeping me always in the light, showing me the reflection of  a face which is telling me that this is what you are and this is what I am and the weather this weather, this sun is so blinding, and I am far far too English for any of this sun or this happiness, or this downright American Miranda July style of storytelling which you love so much and which I cannot stand because I know that it is the only way I know how to write, and I am so like you. If I squint my eyes to the left and strain over the mess of footballers in the field, I can imagine that I see your place and you still sleeping, hunched and feline in that tiny bed, your long toes peeping from the cover, each one painted a different colour.