One early morning you wake with the sun in your eyes
And you see she has left the blinds half-open
Again. And you feel annoyed.
And you know that she has left the blinds half-open
Again. You know there will now be no rest in this bed,
And you swear that she may very well be nothing
But that annoying song stuck in your head.
And you know there will be no rest in this bed
And you wake her to tell her the damn blinds
Are half-open again. She can only yawn and titter;
It drives you round the bend. She is
Always laughing at the strangest times
And then forgetting the joke.
You are annoyed. You are half-blind.
You have hours to steal now. It is so early.
You turn her on her stomach, and her back
Is striped grey and white, and you punch
Purple brackets into her naked heaving
Back, with your teeth, over and over, as
She squirms in irritating delight.
Over and over like this, you have
Hours in which to lose track; her hair
is in your fingers, in an angry frenchtwist.
And it will soon be all jumbled up skeins in
Which to be stayed. Until you will no longer know which
Wetness where, just this thrum of drips and patters;
and you will forget which part yours
And which part hers, and you
Will no longer know if you
Have been completely stilled,
All pointless anger slipped away,
Or if you have been moving
In unseeing rage this whole time,
Transporting yourself
Right through her hard, her soft,
her push, her pull, her bright, her
shade, her moan, her giggle,
her undying wide-awake pain and her
endless drowsy pleasure.
You rest when you can announce you are finally
here, and when your thrust is suddenly, jarringly
completely your own. Yet her fist of hair remains
threaded between your fingers like promising rings, and it is
comforting, and you swear you will forget her
at least until the next sunny morning.
