Another Sunday morning.
It's as though the winter trees are mourning,
as thick flurries pile on their naked limbs.
A dusty sunrise presses against soft sheets.
Somnolent fingertips trace my bare skin,
leaving me a roadmap of all the words I know you're thinking.
The air is sharp with a painful chill,
while you are the hearth of warmth.
Our bodies intertwined,
it takes me back to my childhood summer nights.
Where fireflies called out to their longing lovers
and stars searched for their parents that left so long ago.
Another sympathy of slow breaths
and tender, aching love.
Another Sunday Morning.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Another Sunday morning.
It's as though the winter trees are mourning,
as thick flurries pile on their naked limbs.
A dusty sunrise presses against soft sheets.
Somnolent fingertips trace my bare skin,
leaving me a roadmap of all the words I know you're thinking.
The air is sharp with a painful chill,
while you are the hearth of warmth.
Our bodies intertwined,
it takes me back to my childhood summer nights.
Where fireflies called out to their longing lovers
and stars searched for their parents that left so long ago.
Another sympathy of slow breaths
and tender, aching love.
Another Sunday Morning.
