Sunday Morning

the blinds are rolled down,
and the blanket's in bunches
where our feet intertwine
at the foot of the bed.

your drum of a heartbeat
taps on my shoulder blades
while you rest, pressed behind me
in a bed that's too small.

the silence is broken only
by unsteady breathing
and the sighs of contentment
that abscond from my lips as

the soft pads of your fingers
dance along my waistline
in patterns that
I can't quite follow.

"we should get up,"
you whisper in that
throaty, half-asleep voice
that's saved just for me.

I roll over, and bury my face
in the stubble of your chin,
closing my eyes and
freezing us in the amber of the moment.

Don't ask me why,
just let me lie here
in the quiet.