Morning Stubble

He is spontaneous and imperfect.

His morning stubble tickles my cheeks, and his big stormy eyes reveal that he is just barely awake.

I roll over and it starts with a smile or a kiss, or a hand stretched towards the hips.

All in secret, in the shadows beneath the sheets, there is time,

For moments of insatiable pleasure in a half slumber - with sunshine draping our bodies.

He growls and bites and scratches in my protests, tearing me away from my sleep.

His sighs could move oceans.

He is salty and sweet.

No two people ever fit so perfectly the way we did. 


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