Lazy Sundays

spent in bed

ray of sunlight

creeping through the window

oranges and pinks blend together

sunrise. 

your legs entwined in mine 

my fingers running 

through your curly brown hair 

I'm entangled in you. 

lips pressing against my throat 

a raspy voice whispering 

“morning.”  

blueberry waffles for breakfast 

drenched in maple syrup 

at the white marble countertop. 

I'm dressed in you

your white v-neck 

baggy on me 

and Calvin Klein boxers 

hanging beneath my hips 

I smell like your cigars. 

hours wasted watching “Friends”

nothing better 

than Chandler's sarcastic comments 

at 3 in the afternoon 

giggles and laughter and snorts 

"It's Sunday, I don't move on Sundays."

dancing 

to the new Taylor Swift album 

my hairbrush in hand 

lip syncing.

watching you cook dinner 

spaghetti and meatballs 

like “The Lady & Tramp" 

when we reach the end of the string 

and your lips 

are planted against mine. 

the sky turns 

to blue, to purple, to black. 

white linen sheets call us back.