sunday morning

eyelid stage curtains rise
before the sun
my streetlight dreams of you
for that which
wakes the world to life

sleeping in a bed
without your body beside me
is an empty gesture

recently left impressions
still warm upon the sheets
i slink
to your side
of the world
hoping the scent of your skin
still lingers in the thread count

our memories hidden under the soft white pillows

i am writhing beneath
your beat
pounded metal drum lovers
sewn to the mattress
in my wanting
to move from this moment

our moans become jazz

bra straps pulled from my shoulders
nightgown torn at the thigh
you lift me to your mouth
crashing lips into my hips

tongue conquering me
our kisses an act of delicious war

i am happy to be slammed
face down
to every inch of you

coming together
inside through and covering

this unending ache
for the
sunday morning
fuck poem

8 replies on “sunday morning”

That is humbling…you are too kind. No such think as amateur poetry…every poem changes the world…and the writer. Ink spills the same way no matter who knocks over the well…keep writing.

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