Sundays

We kiss. In this dark, early morning, birds chirping manic across the air, the world wakes from its dewy slumber. We are barefoot on the lawn. The grass begin to sway in the breeze, and at once we are by the sea, waves coming to us by the shore, one by one. Our feet face each other, slightly. My arms enfold softly your chest, as my hands run through the smooth of your back, along your wavy hair. A tear runs through your cheek. It’s Sunday, you whisper, the sun lazily skimming through the façade of your house, tainting sepia its white and blue. Come, you say, holding my hands, I’ve breakfast for two.