Sundays;
allow me to awaken
with the sun peaking from behind
a shy curtain
made of thin, black chiffon,
casting a halo
around your sleeping face
that tosses
and turns
with each dream.

They allow me to study
the mountains range
of your rib cage,
the wind swept hills
of your curls,
even the sharp cliffs
of your jawline,
and every warm valley
your body forms
while under cotton sheets.

They make the earth
hold her breath
for the briefest of seconds
as to not wake you
from your beautiful slumber.
And as my body molds
to your contorts,
the warmth of your skin
surrounds me
like the sea.

I am lost in you,
and lost to the morning,
lulled back into sleep
by the lapping of your heart
on the shores of my cheeks.