Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high

I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.

Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey

I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.

I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table.

Where  dreams  are
  under the tears of stars,
   my eyes  brittle brightsome;
    child-like manner-aforetime adult scars.

"And as I look above,
  cleared of thoughts-vile of ourselves
   wrestling the mind in mud;
     think of your God, for as His purity
        ...shall I too think in His ways"

So did she say;
  torn out title cover of her bible at hand.
   Sunday school teachers taught my
      infanthood lessons, still in adulthood.

It reeks of sadness in this room.
I don't live in the same house, anymore
but I still got your shirt.
I look for you in every face I smile at every day,
they come and go.
So fast, that I wanted it to be you when I look away.
Your smell lives in my head like a song I never liked,
but the chorus screams your name, not the title.

I remembered when you clenched your teeth,
to me, it sounded like the crickets outside my window
that I never thought of closing.
It's cold but I still had the door open for you.

and yet I thought,

there's nothing left to come home to.

the tore down the walls we used to draw on and built a higher one.
the lights... there were none.
Only the blue light coming from a phone so bright that I never thought of putting it down,
in case you call.

in case you wanted to visit the emptiness.

Sunday morning
sluggish streets blink
and whisper to themselves
that there was sun, yesterday

the jagged methadone
of a bad night’s sleep
giving all the weight
none of the peace

technicolour memories
seem to be made false
by this overcast sky
so happiness lies

in the old days
a cigarette and a cup of coffee
would smooth edges,
in the good old days

love is

our unkept bed on a Sunday morning
clothes thrown on the floor
candles burned down to no wicks

sleeping off last nights tangled limbs
on the grey leather couch
infinity in crystal blue eyes

palm to palm, fingers entwined our lifelines cross
counterbalancing personalities complete the circle
protective of what is within

so familiar our anatomical embrace
we breathe shared air
beats in autotune, universe intact

the sunsets and the sun rises
creating each day and each night
and not once does it ask permission
the night will still be pink with light pollution
because of the single office illuminators,
found in every breathing building
the night shift family I never met,
will still glow behind little screens
or candle light thought bubbles and ink
the morning will still spill coffee all over him
but only on mondays, when he’s running late
mondays will always come
sunday mornings will still petition against alarm clocks
and sunday, hereself, will always win
it will rain and it won’t
either way, without me
a.m.

I dream of Sundays with you
In the next life after this one
Where your snore will awaken me
And your spiral curls tickle my eye

We'll lay in your bed under sheets
Witness the light of the sunrise
Decide on where to have breakfast
Feel too lazy to get up and dressed

I won't be void of your affections
In the next life after this one
You'll be my sweet baby
And I your greatest love

-DS