morbid morning....I.

There is this greediness to her.


She’s lying next to you this morning. You are asleep and she’s wishing that you weren’t.

She’s wondering why she chose to sleep in your bed last night. She has not slept well, probably a couple of broken hours at most. She never feels rested when there is someone resting next to her.

Then again, if asked again, she would forget again, she would probably find herself here once more.

It is for this, for this moment of course, for this chance, so she can wake up and not waste a second getting back to you. Part of her hoards you, her time with you, like a child with a brand-new coveted toy, and feels ridiculous for it.

She’s calculating in her head, two hours left until she leaves, twenty minutes to get ready and catch the bus, if you sleep another hour that gives her another forty minutes still to have with you. To have you.

But if you sleep another half hour on top of that, only ten minutes left, not enough, if forty minutes, well then, obviously, no time at all.

It’s not like you’re going to disappear after this, but she knows all of it will soon enough.

It is not just her arousal; she could take care of that herself, perhaps even manage to do it without waking you up. Not just her need to cum, not just that you could make her cum harder, not even how she loves to be just touched. It’s not just you. All that is there, but no, it is more than that, a bigger hunger than just that.


She’s lying there, trying to pretend to be asleep.

She’s lying right near you on this particular morning, flat on her stomach, her neck purposefully twisted away from you. Because when her neck’s the other way, she grows tired of the strobe photographs she gets of you every time her eyes shutter open and closed. You never shift, no matter how frequently she looks. And she tires easily of this flipbook with the same unmoving image on each page, each identical page getting her closer to the moment where her hopes for that one more time will be dashed.

Her thoughts are dark on this morning, too dark for crack of day. Maybe she’s awoken from a dead dream, black.