Breakfast

By Korah Frances

Breakfast 

In an eddy of new sunlight, 

I find your wrists. 

Cocoon of damp cotton,

my tongue lingers in your collar

and the honeypot of your mouth.

Your eyes tremble with missed sleep

so you find me by warmth;

a gentle swell of breast, the soft heat

of my praise.

Be still, now.

From this quiet will come a prayer,

a tightening of muscle

beneath a meal of bare skin.

Your fingertips embed each moment

into the arch of my back.

I wring the morning between my hands

and it runs sweet on your tongue like syrup.