The morning after, I watch you sleep, dawn-pearled
and crumpled in lust-musky sheets still rumpled
from the thresh and billow of last night's love.
I feel the pearlescent essence of you slowly leach,
the secret warm seep lacing my thighs, cooling to opaque streaks.
Last night, the room was tropical with heat:
air simmering with cinnamon sighs,
vermilion vibes, kaleidoscope cries;
your hands cupping my nipples like rose-pink shells,
my mouth mouthing please-yes-oh against yours
as we clung and came in a hothouse spin of stars.
The morning after, light is always softer;
a languid tease of gold tonguing curtain cracks,
gentle, like a lover trailing warm fingers
over gilded skin, tracing newness upon me.