In her morning, she will smile,
waiting for me to rise and sigh,
tho’ with sleep still in her eyes,
she will turn with a wistful step,
and swagger her way to the bath,
beckoning me with her thighs.

How well I do know her.
How easily she moves me.
How little I know myself.

In her morning, she will kiss me,
her lips may but feign a tremble,
but her eyes will be bold in gaze,
her breath may quicken too soon,
as if needing embrace to breathe,
but precision shall be in her ways.

How tender is her response.
How well she knows my reply.
How intimate in her morning.