Morning

When I put my head under the covers
it is hard to tell,
if indeed,
the morning has come.

I smell your smell,
warm and moist as a summer’s day,
but my tongue is dry
from breathing in and out
through my mouth.

When I try to swallow,
I find that my throat is sore.
I wonder: Is there anything more
I can manage?

I really I should call in sick,
but not so sick
that we should waste any time.
Hey! Ya wanna fuck?