The queen

I think in terms of London, a city of bumbling bees, a city of future his city, the city where he exists in me, the city where I might want to be, full faced and flush across from him at a table with a beer. I'll have a cider but he wants his Guinness and by the end of the night we might not feel it so vividly but we are alive. In his arms that night I might think that I am the center of the world, that the earth revolves around me, that the buzzing revolves around me. We make honey in the dark the covers tented a top us, just the two of us. I wake up with honey dried and peeling from my thighs, waxing, making me soft. Again, I feel it, though coordinates prove me wrong, for a second I believe I am the center of the world. But more accurately, I am only the center of mine.