She had the imprint of the pillowcase across her face,
Mascara smudged beneath both eyes, an absolute disgrace,
Of morning beauty, and I had never wanted anyone this bad.
She looked wrecked and perfect, and the morning to be had.
Was written on her body in the sheet marks and the sweat,
Of last night still drying on her skin, and I would bet
My whole week’s pay that nothing in the world looks half as fine,
As a woman who’d been fucked all night still covered in the wine.
Of sleep and sex, I kissed the pillow crease across her cheek,
Then kissed down to her neck, her chest. I didn’t need to speak.
She arched her back still half-asleep and spread her legs apart,
I kissed down past her navel to the bottom of the chart.
At seven thirty, sun crawling through the blind,
I got her wet with my tongue while she barely stirred.
The sweetest filth I find: the wreckage of the morning,
her taste still on my lips, and I am living for her hips.
She licked me slow and deep until she was fully awake and moaning,
Grabbed my head and held me there—no point in postponing—
The orgasm that was building since my first kiss on her crease,
She came against my mouth and flooded with a full release.
She pulled me up and kissed the taste of herself off my face,
Reached down and guided me inside her, found the place
Where morning sex lives lazy and unhurried and complete,
Pillow creases on her cheek and tangled morning feet.