Morning Love

We don’t say good morning.

We never do.

It starts with a hug that lies about its intentions,

my hands already claiming what they know is theirs.

You laugh into my neck. I grow bold.

I pull you close, kiss you like I’m stealing something,

like I might not get another chance all day.

You soften. I nearly lose my resolve.

I drop lower than I should.

Long enough to forget clocks exist.

Too long to pretend I’m being sensible.

I stop myself — barely —

stand, breath wrecked, resolve thinner than my excuse.

You touch me through fabric, slow and deliberate,

a reminder, not a finish.

You kiss me like later is guaranteed.

Driving away,

windows cracked,

I realise you’ve marked me anyway.

Your scent clings to my beard,

warm and private,

and I smile at traffic like a man

who knows exactly what he’s coming home to.