Easy, relaxed, just like Sunday mornings, that’s how love should be, nothing complicated, simply basic and comprehensible. When the lust of Saturday wears off, waking up to the trance of an easy Sunday love should see you through the uncertainty. Why make it a complex game of yours and mine, when what’s yours is yours and what’s mine is mine, let it be. Let the clarity sink in and the hesitation unfold.
Time doesn’t exist on Sunday mornings, minutes morph into hours in between the endless ticking of time that has yet to be told. This is Sunday morning love, right here in between the blankets, in between my thoughts, in between the end and beginning of another week. When day breaks, I’ll lay in the light that forced its way through the sheets and with each flutter of my eyelid I’d make a wish, that every Sunday morning feel just like this.
Sunday mornings feel like the coffee smothered in steamy foam. Like the warmth of a summer sun on your face, the same way water glides off your skin. Just like the breeze that ever so slightly caresses your hair, Sunday mornings should be easy, breezy, effortless. Don’t tell yourself you’re being negligent and you aren’t worthy, the world will wait. Sunday mornings are to be cherished, to be lazy and unwilling to use an ounce of energy that may otherwise be wasted on mindless chores.
Sunday mornings speak to me, of how my imperfections became perfect and how the sound of my flaws were music to someone’s ears. How I caught every breath that needed an escape and how the sweet scent of something wanted was inhaled slowly. My being is not compromised, it is me, shielded in my own cocoon. I bask in the safe space, holding on to the moment when nothing more matters. Grasp a little longer to the warmth and the beats that rhythmically tell a tale of two hearts. I’m spooned in skin and the embrace of a heavy hand. I feel the softness and glide along the crevices. If I were to let go, I’d fall apart and who doesn’t want to be wrapped in a secure blanket of affection and be held together?
There’s nothing to speak, no agenda to be discussed, just enveloped in silence and embraced in desire. It’s an affair, not from the lust of Saturday night, but an affair of yearning to be loved like Sunday morning. These mornings were not made to think or talk, just rest and dwell. These mornings are made for uncomplicated pleasures; a kind of love made just for Sunday mornings.