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.