Sunday Morning

Soft light drifts into your pastel room,

walls covered in chipped paint

and under warm, heated covers we lay.

Windows cracked open revealing dew, rain,

the sweet scent of spring and crisp air,

all urging us to crawl out of bed.

The breeze brings a chill which draws us closer.

Your fingers move, uncover my secrets, my skin,

and our legs intertwine as though we are one

and I thought, how nice this was,

that I didn’t  love you.

Otherwise my heart would ache for more

and more of you every day,

every night, every lazy afternoon.

The dust of sleep still present in your eyes,

your messy, dark, curly hair,

and I thought,

maybe I did love you.

Maybe love grew with every crooked smile,

bedhead hair and thick flannel,

with rough, calloused hands and freckled shoulders,

with eyes that listen.

Maybe love was planted as a daisy,

and over time, bloomed into a beautiful, white rose.

Maybe when we laid in bed,

when I scratched poetry into your back that would never fade away,

and my name dripped sweetly from your lips;

drops of gold stored away in my memory;

maybe then I fell for you.

I sat up, cold, and you pulled me down next to you, laughing all the while.

Slipping out of your warm embrace

as you fell back to sleep, smile tugging on your lips,

I combed my fingers through your hair.

Slid out from under the covers and

tip-toed down the stairs, wrapped in a quilt,

curled up on the run-down couch on your porch,

with a mug steaming of lemon tea & honey.

The crisp air and dew, carpeted the yard with delicate light that danced off windows.

With the warm mug pressed against my thigh, sat in the silence,

soaked in the peace,

always been my favorite time of the day, the week.

Dawn, alone.

But I realized, not anymore.

Author's Note

What do you think? Any advice/opinions are welcome, just please be respectful :)