My Cardboard Balcony

Mo Chuisle by Belinda Roddie   Mo chuisle. My pulse. My love. My darling. My current on a windy day. The Liffey swollen with static. The frost on a pint glass. Frost speckled spit lips kiss kiss boom pulse heart Mo chuisle.

The knife couldn't cut the bread, so we broke the loaf into pieces and ate it in chunks, thick sourdough soaking in our mouths and sweetening our tongues. We didn't have butter or anything to top it with, but it tasted so good that it felt like we didn't need it. You passed me the bottle of wine we had stolen from Jonathan's vineyard. I took a long drink. It tasted like your lips.