There might be a sliver of guilt when I say,
“I’m getting up now,” after you peel off my back
to collapse into the pillows and re-covering yourself.
Maybe a tiny fleck of guilt how I guided your
sleep heavy erection inside me past my flimsy shorts
too short to cover my cheeks, and so loose I could flick them sideways.
Perhaps a thimble of guilt when you snuggled ind
moments after my alarm went off, and I let you hug
me for the five minute snooze, but after
tentacled my fingers around your flaccid sleep.
What guilt I had fled when I bounced down the
stairs for breakfast and you slept till 10am and I
got my writing done to music and coffee.