Your back is to me:
freckled, aging,
strangely and unacceptably vulnerable.
So I stroke gently,
fingertips tracing neck, collarbone,
shoulder, the knobs of your spine
down, down below the blanket
to the cleft of your backside,
again and again.
You sigh and murmur
a string of sleep-dowsed syllables
as you turn to me,
slide arms and legs under and around
and pull me tight against you.
The bones of your skull press against my cheek.
I feel the roughness of your beard,
the warmth of your breath.
The needfulness in you
lulls me to false and forgetful security
and I hold you hard.
Stupid me.
Your body twitches – restless, resisting.
The sounds you make now are feral,
displeasure coming
from a place below words.
You push yourself away
to lie, sprawling, on your back.
But still.
Your arm is around my shoulders and
again you pull me close and snug.
I reach for your not-quite-soft cock,
stroke it the way you have taught me,
cajole it to impatient hardness.
But you decline my invitation,
yawning and stretching into wakefulness
and dropping a kiss on my forehead
before you roll out of bed
to get ready for your date.
eyasunbound 