Open the windows, let in the air,
Pick up the bottles, chuck out the cans.
You can stay lying just over there,
Wouldn’t want you to dirty your hands.
The morning after your birthday last night
Is cold with the sting of the fresh winter breeze
As I scurry around getting dirt out of sight.
And you call down shall I order Chinese?
Not quite yet my strapping young man,
I’m going to join you back in our bed
For a cuddle and story, if you can
And I’ll rest on your chest with my head.
The comforting beat of your heart in my ear
Sends my mouth crashing forwards onto your lips.
And I grasp you, holding you near,
Murmuring as you thrust into my hips.
As with most of my poetry, it's not me speaking.
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