My morning is two hours earlier than yours,
but you’re always holding an foot long mastiff while snoring
on your back, one hand down pajama pants.
It doesn’t take much effort to wiggle on your side,
spoon into your waiting twist to hug me back to sleep,
but I’m shimmying your wood between my legs,
and tugging boxers and panties low enough for skin in skin.
“It’s okay,” i say, after, “go back to sleep; I’ll make you breakfast.”