Chirping Birds and Sunday Mornings

My eyes are heavy with sleep and dried mascara. This morning I woke up to your snores, shoved off to the side of the bed, shoulder to shoulder with you, fighting your dog for space on the bed.

I was groggy, as is usually the case when I stay at your house, but a small smile twitched to life on my lips. I closed my eyes again and rolled over, lulled back to sleep until the sun breathed life into the room, slipping over us like an added blanket. You rolled over to me – not far, since I had a tiny portion of the bed, and you held me close, falling back to sleep yourself with me as your security blanket. Your ease melted into your breaths, my mind too aware of your consciousness to drift off itself.

You shifted, I followed, I moved, you held on to me, an endless swaddling of each others’ comfort, magnetic skin melded together.

As we began to wake, we murmured to each other, gently warming up our voices. Murmurs turned into kisses, eyes closed, finding a forehead, a neck, a cheek, a shoulder. Skin was salty and plentiful, our clothes on the floor like forgotten present wrappings. And I nuzzled into you and you smiled, your eyes shining brighter than I had seen in months, since the night your drunk eyes ogled me in your clothes. And you kissed my forehead in appreciation.

As the morning drew on, our murmurs grew louder and the sheets became more rustled, limbs twining and tangling together with kisses, tickles, and loud smacks. Eyes alight, smiles bright, and laughter so lighthearted we might as well have been flying.

You’d climb on top of me, bearing your weight on me in calm, like a massage against my skin. I’d try to get out of bed and you’d pull me back down, back to you. And when I conceded, which didn’t take much more convincing than your manhandling, we were pressed against each other, belly to belly, your hand gently grazing my back. I opened my eyes, found skin to kiss, and pulled back to look at you. You opened your stunning eyes, and I told you how distracting they were the night before (and always). You, who rarely accepts compliments without fighting them, smiled and stared because you didn’t know what to say. Your lips demonstrated all that you couldn’t say.

The morning’s tranquil energy turned fun and flirtatious, and I didn’t want to leave. I said I’d leave if you got up, and you promised you’d stay there forever, pulling me into a cheesy, be-proud-of-me-I-said-something-cute hug.

I rubbed your back, lulling you back into a sleepy daze, and memories of the year before spun through my head; I had been here before and I longed to be back there.

As I laid there with you, I thought to myself what a wonderful Sunday morning, and why can’t it always be like this.




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