Sunday Mornings

I wish life just an endless stream of Sunday mornings

When the sun peeks in through the blinds and the remnants of last night still linger in the back of my throat

And I think to myself,

Can I die here?

In between your arm that is wrapped around my waist and the sheets that are falling off the bed

And the responsibilities of tomorrow so far from my grasp that is seems like we are floating in time.

Can I die here?

Where the air is silent and the world outside is still except for the rustle of the wind in between the trees

And I am staring at you,

Your chest as it rises and falls and your hands that loosely grip my own and your nose and lips and chin and your neck and hair.

And my eyes might as well belong to you

Because they spend more time on you than they do anywhere else.

I wish it was Sunday mornings always

When the silence manages to fill the emptiness in my chest and I think to myself

I would like to die here.