A spoon in my coffee, my hand in your hair

I open one eye and peer at you
over the folds of the pillowcase-
you stir slightly
so I drag a hand from beneath the blanket,
slide my fingers into your hair
-tightening them
momentarily, lazily,
just to hear the little sound you make
before you find the voice
to accuse me
of being a sleepy sadist.

I hum agreement and slide closer,
propping myself up on one elbow
for a better view of your repose.

Your hair is standing at attention in two triangles
like the ears of the Fennec fox
we saw at the Santa Barbra zoo,
curled against the glass of his enclosure
dozing to the muffled sounds of voyeuristic humans

Your eyes slide shut again
and I run my nails lightly down your chest
you arch into the pressure beautifully.

I’d draw you if it wasn’t so damn early.
Or tie you up.

Hurting you is coming home
in raised red increments.

Hurting you is comforting
as the salt of your skin on my tongue,
as a spoon in my coffee
as my hand, in your hair.

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