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Has anyone told you that you taste of Sunday mornings?
Not the kind after a night out. not the hurling, hurting kind.
You know that crisp I just woke up at 10 am with nothing to do but love you Sunday morning?
That, "do you want pancakes or waffles? Ice cream or whipped cream? Tea or Coffee?"
That, how many movies do you think we can squeeze in between laughter and your moans?
That, how many chapters will you let me read before you brush your fingers too close to my inner thighs and I can't help but breath a little too loud for you to ignore?

You taste the way a lone cloud looks on a sunny blue sky,
and the way a breeze feels rustling through a canopy of trees.
Did I tell you that?




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