Good Morning

My tongue slides gently past half-open lips,
And takes a little stroll within your need,
Before it works down slowly; your heart skips
A beat, as kisses bring forth the first seed
That yields to a love, which would embrace
The liquid centre of your dampest dreams,
The ones that make you really sweet to taste
Ensuring that the tongue returns and cleans
The honeyed residue of all that lust
You have expended through a wishful night,
When you have conjured fires to combust
The heat within you, yielding such delight
When "good mornings" are swiftly put aside,
And, past half-open lips, my tongue must slide.