It’s Sunday morning and we’re in the new, exciting, daylight savings time.
Peter and I are sitting next to each other on the big, red, corduroy couch in my suite’s common room.

All of my roommates are gone so we’re free to relax in our PJs. We’re quietly heads-down on our devices. When, suddenly, I realized, as I do every 10 minutes or so, that it’s Spring Break!

I side-eyed Peter who was reading something. Probably some interstellar statistical report whose roots were calculated in base 7. I slowly, so as not to divulge that anything was happening, lowered my iPad and set it aside.

Then I slowly, very slowly, begin invading his space - he doesn’t notice at first but I lean on him gradually harder and heavier. He looked at me, confused, but now I’m crawling onto his lap - rolling onto my back. He moves his laptop - holding it up and away with one hand.

“EXCUSE me,” I say, “I beg your pardon, couldn’t be helped.” I repeat about three times as I roll a complete 360° in his lap with glacial, disruptive slowness - making sure to elbow him gently in places and cover his face with hair.

As I climb off him, I jump up and start singing and dancing to this song I made up (with maximum arm flail):

K k k k King kong song
I’m sing the king kong song
I’m dancing to the king kong song
Feel free to sing along.

I point at him and sing, “I’m talking to YOU!”

K k k k King kong song
You’re listening to the king kong song
Feel free to sing along
To the K k k King kong song!

I stop, striking a pose like someone on a Broadway stage waiting for applause.

“YOU,” he says, are a complete NUT.” But he’s smiling, broadly, as I jump onto his lap and begin smothering him with kisses.

Twin glasses of orange juice, froth quietly fizzling out
A plate of turkey bacon piled overzealously high

I would cook you French toast every day, if you'd let me.

Fresh croissants from a bakery down the street
Halved strawberries drizzled with honey

I'll sprinkle cinnamon in our coffee, just like my grandmother used to.

I don't know much of love, but I know this:
When the sun breaks through my kitchen window,
I hope you'll be sitting at the table.

The handbook of my heart
Is one
For the birds,
As I am
Because I do
When there simply aren’t words.
So Sunday’s swan song
These little loaves
of love—
                    A bread of pray
                    For a safe journey home
                    My sweet turtle dove.

mail gets delivered everyday

do you ever expect a letter from me asking you to meet me halfway?

packages getting delivered under the windowsill

accidentally spilling coffee on the water bill

I have my book of stamps and personalized stationary too

just give me a pen and tell me what address am I sending this letter to?

pictures and videos

your recorded laugh echoes

seeing these old photos of you in your youth

feels like waiting in line at a tollbooth

visiting the past comes at a price

it costs a pretty penny and tends to be unwise

these pictures and letters will never make it to your mailbox

just like when you see me you'll always move over to the other side of the sidewalk

finding these captured moments of the past

makes me want to climb in my car and drive fast

you seemed happy then and even happier now

it doesn't seem like I've brought you too down

eight years ago today you gave me ten digits to dial

I thought our six hundred and thirty six days spent together was beautiful like mosaic tile

you were the first, that I cannot change

but even if I could, there's nothing I would rearrange

you still move me in ways i cannot explain

even after all these years there are so many feelings that still remain

some bad and some good

just wondering

do you still wear the sweatshirt I got you,

the one with the hood?

I'm sure I am forgotten about

everything about me in your mind, completely wiped out

which is fine

just at least have a glimmer of when your heart was mine

mail coming on the seventh day is a nice concept

except

no matter where you are, wherever the trees sway

the mail never comes on Sunday

The King and the prince went up to the city,
the King to make peace, the prince to get tricky,
one lived to love and one loved to hate,
one gave his life and one took the bait.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one stood condemned, the other stood guilty,
one spoke the truth, the other just lies
one knew the plan, one got a surprise.

The King and the prince went up to the city,
one filled with tears, one empty of pity.
The prince had his Friday, ‘thought the war had been won.
The King rose on Sunday, his reign just begun.

Impossibly,
pigeons sparked against a cerulean sky
spinning like a tossed hand of loose change
in appreciation of the day’s artistry

On the bed’s edge,
trying to align and affix,
gingerly stretching muscles that used to behave,
their co-ordinated flight cast me
momentarily saddened
as each sock and trouser leg moaned on

Still,
the sun kissed us all, anyway