I woke up on a Saturday morning and expected to feel somewhat refreshed
Saturday mornings have always been among those of my favorite, second to Sunday mornings
But as weeks continuously drag on I find I am not feeling as I would like to on these mornings
The bed being so cold seems to have more of an effect on me than I'd like to admit
I realize, that it is not that I miss you on Saturday mornings or Sunday morning
I miss you as soon as you are out of reach
Love is simultaneously the most cruelly selfish and wildly giving impulse we have and to be denied of it is something that sleeping in cannot fix, a disease incurable by coffee and cigarettes
I know heaven because I know what love is and I know hell because I know what love is
It is not a field of flowers but it is not a gun to your head
Love is something right in between, the most famous purgatory of them all, the end of your life as you once knew it, all memory of what you were before them has been erased, gentle, gone before you ever knew it was being taken from you
And it's funny because here I am overflowing with words I do not have about a love I do not own
But I imagine if I were to have your love it would be one to cherish
I think the first time I kiss you, I'll be smiling and
I think the first time I am graced with holding your hand a shiver will make its way up and down my spine
You are nothing ordinary, you are nothing common
I honestly am not sure how the universe even came up with you
Molded masterpiece of in the deep palms, crafted cut and complete to be something extraordinary
You are what I have been searching for years but with you standing so far I still haven't quite found you
This morning was dreary and still, it held a quietness to it that made me feel uncomfortable
There was not aroma of French toast or the curve of my body fitting perfecting into yours
I wake up Saturday mornings and expect to feel rejuvenated but instead, I am so weary
The morning is all empty where love used to be