As I scramble for six-to-nine,
you’re realigning centrally.
Ceding one champagne trestle of hair to rest
upon your own pillow
in the limp billow of your departure,
you set about conquering mine.
Mid-way through your doped advance,
I chance a glimpse of button-breast:
smooth and full, with a nipple now sleepier;
yet it’s still seducing,
reducing the room inside my pressed pants,
teasing a last tilt of my lance.
You look good in a bed sheet nest:
finest white bakes your burnished skin
further. I mess up my tie and start again.
I’m almost there, until,
of sleepy will, your hand nears stirring spring,
and softly circles its flushed crest.
Your dreamy search for carnally,
caudally pleasuring does test
my resolve for leaving you lone to start your
day in a creepier,
sepia light. Should I stop, stay, divest,
and revel in you ventrally?
Like your pace, temptation augments,
relents for me to slip back in
and wait for you to wake and yield free reign,
to quench a thirst to quest
and suggest telling them “it’s a stomach thing” -
I have far more pressing appointments.