May 2015
In the middle of June, we wake up to the light peering through the blinds, it's 10 am
I squint my eyes just enough to map out where you are
I remember I am wearing your white t-shirt and smile
You are already awake, lying there looking at me
"How long have you been up?" I ask
"Just a few minutes, not too long. How'd you sleep?"
"Wonderful, as always with you," I mumble the last part, "Breakfast?"
He smiles and sits up on his elbow, facing me
"I got it, you just make coffee. Deal?"
He gleams with a smile that could give a blind man sight and all I can manage is a nod.
He kisses my forehead and throws the sheets off his body
I sit there, gazing at him, trying not to fall more in love with him than I already am
I check my phone and my mother called, but I decide to call her later and succumb to following the trail of french toast coming from the kitchen
I hear him humming and walk towards the record player
Digging through out box of records, I choose our favorite, Work Song
I look over at him and his skin almost glows at the melody flowing through the walls
"French toast?"
"Problem?"
"None at all," I grin, "How do you want your coffee?"
He gives me a stern look as if I am serious
"I'm joking, two sugars, one and a half creams," I say kissing his cheek
The thing about love is it can be playful and sweet and reckless all at the same time. We have managed a perfect balance between them all. Love wears dark blue pajama pants. Love has burnt caramel hair and candlelight skin. Utmost of all, love makes the best french toast.
I squint my eyes just enough to map out where you are
I remember I am wearing your white t-shirt and smile
You are already awake, lying there looking at me
"How long have you been up?" I ask
"Just a few minutes, not too long. How'd you sleep?"
"Wonderful, as always with you," I mumble the last part, "Breakfast?"
He smiles and sits up on his elbow, facing me
"I got it, you just make coffee. Deal?"
He gleams with a smile that could give a blind man sight and all I can manage is a nod.
He kisses my forehead and throws the sheets off his body
I sit there, gazing at him, trying not to fall more in love with him than I already am
I check my phone and my mother called, but I decide to call her later and succumb to following the trail of french toast coming from the kitchen
I hear him humming and walk towards the record player
Digging through out box of records, I choose our favorite, Work Song
I look over at him and his skin almost glows at the melody flowing through the walls
"French toast?"
"Problem?"
"None at all," I grin, "How do you want your coffee?"
He gives me a stern look as if I am serious
"I'm joking, two sugars, one and a half creams," I say kissing his cheek
The thing about love is it can be playful and sweet and reckless all at the same time. We have managed a perfect balance between them all. Love wears dark blue pajama pants. Love has burnt caramel hair and candlelight skin. Utmost of all, love makes the best french toast.
