Dawn's early light seeps through the rooms thin curtains and I'm mesmerised by the dust motes that float and linger in the air.
I'm tired, sleep having come only in dribs and drabs, the waking hours in-between filled only with the constant, slow-motion replay of my kissing you – the taste of you still imprinted on my lips – lips that are practically raw from the constant tracing of the tip of my tongue, tasting you over and over.
The waking hours have also been filled with my mind working overtime. I've taken that first step and acted upon my needs, my wants – and I crave more, much more.
This time I acted upon them in a cowardly way, waiting for you to fall asleep.
But the next time, and there will be a next time – you will most definitely be awake.
