I want a Sunday kind of love—one that is as
comforting and warm as my favorite soft robe tied
tight around my ******* on a foggy morning.
The kind of morning that licks at my consciousness and
makes me still feel as if I’m dreaming—that hazy blur
where reality and my burning desire collides.
A love that wakes up with the sun, lips against my
shoulder smelling of last night’s whiskey kisses, strong
hands pulling me close, nestled into the soft
voluptuousness of my ******* and grabbing hold of your
dreams, the fit of an arm around my waist.
Our Saturday clothes full of adventure and sunlight will
be left carelessly crumpled on the floor of my room, little
bits of leaves and dirt scattered about—now nothing more
than just artifacts of our late night walk in the rain, but
still smelling like rusty promises and a desire so hot it
will singe your fingertips as they slowly undress me.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Although you've been ******* me for a while now—
first my skepticism and sarcasm fell from my shoulders
like heavy stones to the bottom of a cold rushing river; I
stepped out of my insecurities and fears while you held
my hand and that now seem to have been misplaced
somewhere along the way.
My masks of who and what I should be that I wore for far
too long now collect dust and seem like nothing but sad
old memories that I have no need to cling to any longer.
Just when I will believe I couldn’t bare any more of
myself to you, you’ll take your hands and draw the soft
blue cotton of my dress up around my hips, my waist,
exposing my *******, over my head tossing it recklessly
aside ––and suddenly, there will be nothing left to hide
behind.
And so we will fall into the light of a thousand stars, the
dreams from the nightmares that woke us for far too long,
the sleepless nights and the breath choking in the back of
our throats, the words that burn to be said—all of it will
disappear into that one moment that will be caught in
between our lips as they meet.
And the night will last until the sun wakes us with her
light through heavy tender kisses, scratches along
ripened exposed skin deep with a passion and a fervent
rocking desire that will leave us both breathless.
It will be a night of sweet strawberry whiskey, the haze of
smoke circling around our heads and opening up our
eyes. It will be fiery grilled peaches sweetened with rose
honey and melted vanilla ice cream, it will be a million
moments that all will come down to one.
The moment where a Saturday Night turns into a Sunday
Morning.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Last night’s laughter will still echo in the back of our
throats, but we will have lost our voices to the softness of
a Sunday morning. Barely speaking above a whisper I
will trace all of my secrets onto your skin with my lips,
waking you from your sleep as I press my bottom against
you, not needing words, because you will already know
what I want.
My mouth will seek out your neck, my fingertips tracing
the steps of a thousand journeys that have finally brought
you to me, and I’ll take you in my mouth, saying good
morning to you in the only way that I know how.
My bedroom hair will be messy and tangled, nothing but a
fallen halo of ***** nonsense falling over and around you
as I move, daring you to ever leave this bed.
Soft heirloom quilts holding the dreams of tomorrows in
shades of blues and greens like my eyes, but not nearly
as deep––or as passionate—especially when you’re the
one I’m looking at.
Mottled light through the shades creating warm shadows
across our skin, leaving the softness of bed wearing
nothing as I toss a smile over my shoulder and I leave
you lying in bed wondering how you ever got here, and
yet at the same time, how could you possibly ever leave.
I’ll bring you a heavy mug of steaming coffee smelling
like the exotic hills of Peru and tasting almost as sweet
as me, and though we will have every intention of
drinking it, the mugs will sit growing cold, as at first we
will laugh until I begin moving against you once again,
and you unable and unwilling to resist will come to play
with me once more.
I want a Sunday kind of love.
Eventually we will rise, and I’ll put on your worn t-shirt I
picked up from the floor—just because I can—and,
barefoot with music playing, I’ll make us pancakes.
Swaying my hips as I mix and fry them over a hot griddle,
the oil spitting and biting at my bare skin, just like I’ve
done a thousand mornings before—except this time I’ll be
making them for you.
We’ll sit in the dappled sunlight and have breakfast, the
air smelling like bacon and fresh coffee, and I’ll watch
your eyes as you see the maple syrup trickle down my
chin and land on the rise of my ******* begging to be
licked off by your hungry mouth.
I’ll ask you to leave the dishes where they are as I say I’ll
be in the shower if you want to join me—although there
was never a question as to if you would.
Because this is a Sunday kind of love; one that begs to
stay undressed and tasted slowly, one that lingers on our
lips long after it's passed.
I want a Sunday kind of love.