You Sleep Through Your Alarm Most Mornings

Alex Everette


You wake to his tongue
pressed into your mouth; he
tastes of something familiar
/unfamiliar. You kiss him,
let him kiss more of you
/all of you. Soon he tastes
like you again and you
recognize it as warm beer.

You wake to his fingers
pressed into your sweats
/you; he waits for
a reaction, encouragement
/the twitch of your hips. In
the early hours you open
your eyes to sunlight.

You wake to empty blankets
pressed around you; he dressed
/is on the way out. There’s coffee
and a bowl packed for you
before he closes the door. You
should have left ten minutes ago
/you shouldn’t leave
/you should leave.



Alex Everette is a New England area writer who collects bones and tends to entirely too many succulents. His work can be found at Abstract Magazine, Post Ghost Press, and The Raven Chronicles.