Drunk sex isn't good sex--
aint like comfy sex that begins
in the kitchen
with a wink and an arm
about a waist
when the pasta's cooking
and the stove's off, but
the oven's on
then the goings on go
back to the bedroom
where there's a hungry
bigger than
the kitchen kinda hungry.
And waking up
means sore all over
with arms and legs and backs
breaking, aching,
warm tingling,
and remembering:
you tried something new
and you want
to try it
again and again and again.
Ahh, and that smell you're smellin'
wafting in from the kitchen:
just the sweet aroma
of slow, sweet, and easy
just a cookin' your eggs,
makin' your coffee,
tending to the best hangover
you ever had.

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Author guidance for This poem

I think this is self-explanatory.

Tonight, I'm packing up my life so I can move on to the next chapter, and I keep finding journals and poems that I wrote in the life I led before the one I'm leaving now. This poem is one of those ramblings from that bygone time.

**Note to self: do not pour a third glass.**

updated Feb 19 '10 by C3Lady