"great gobs"

we sat
so close

I bit
into the egg sandwich you made
for me

you leaned in
eager to see

me like it.
I knew, held
as I held it,

pregnant with unbroken yolk,

it could spurt great clinging gobs
all over your surprised face,
a soft hot rorschach,

crowning your blush,
bejewelling an eyelash

- one of those things that happen.
It didn't. The hot flood was mine,

filling my delicious mouth,

and the blush was mine. You saw,
and approved.

You have won,
but it could have gone
easily either way,

with one slightly wrong
move.