Nights are never long enough,
rushing through foggy dreams,
wrestling with wrinkled sheets,
fighting the crick in my neck,
anxious to touch each other even in our sleep,
yet desparate for space when we sweat.
We roll over back to back, skin to skin.
Searching for deep slumber,
I jump at the blaring radio alarm,
that sounds too soon, knocking over
a water glass, turning it off,
then collapse again, trying to dive back
into a quick comatose state, even if only for five minutes.
Still wanting to save time for love making at dawn,
our morning ritual.
We're addicted to this savory way of waking up,
unwilling to give it up, even for one day,
but it always makes us late.
Wouldn't a cup of coffee suffice?
No, because making love is much more fun.
You rub the sleep from your eyes, while I strectch,
and start your shower.
Screeching pipes from water rushing up,
exploding out of the shower head,
much the way you did inside of me.
Hotter-than-hot water, steam gathers quickly.
I like breathing it in, it softens the air, my skin.
It steams up the mirror by the time you come in,
and I write, 'I love you', with a slick finger,
and it starts to drip, like my happy tears.
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