Sundays Are for Breakfast in Bed

The birds begin before the sun,
a murmuring chorus slipping through the curtains,
soft gold spilling over her shoulder
and I lie here, watching,
watching the slow rise and fall of her breath,
the way her lips part in dreams,
how her hair spills across the pillow
like a river I could wade in forever.

My fingers trace lazy circles in her hair,
soft, absentminded strokes
I swear the scent of her could drive me mad.
Our bodies fit like a secret well kept,
feet tangled, legs woven,
like the world carved us from the same stone
and set us here to rest, to ruin,
to press into one another like a whispered prayer.

The summer breeze slips through the open doors,
carrying the scent of jasmine and sun-warmed earth,
the sky itself exhaling into our room
but I do not need flowers when she is here.
I kiss her cheek, lightly, just to taste the morning,
just to let the moment stretch
before desire stirs in the quiet,
waiting, aching,
but I can lie here a thousand years
if only to watch her sleep.

Then—her breath shifts,
her lips part not in dream but in waking,
her eyes—
green like something untamed, glinting,
open slow, and meet mine.
She smiles.
And oh, what a simple, ruinous thing.

"Good morning, beautiful," I whisper,
my lips barely parting,
soft as a secret shared in candlelight.
She stretches, drowsy, mischievous,
as if Sunday itself was meant for this.
The clock radio screams against the quiet
I slam it with blind desperation,
and she laughs, rolling closer,
pressing against me with something playful, knowing.

"What time is it?" she asks, voice warm with sleep.
I grin.
"Her time."
And she hums, a slow, wicked sound,
eyes flickering with something unspoken.
"Oh really?"

The blankets stir, her fingers tease at the edge of morning,
her voice like the promise of trouble.
She giggles—soft, low,
tilting her head like a schoolgirl plotting.
"What’s for breakfast?" she asks, mock-innocent.
And before I can answer, she smirks
"I think I’m in the mood for sausage and eggs."

We both laugh, tangled and knowing,
her emerald eyes burning beneath the hush.
The world outside does not matter—
the sun will climb, the breeze will shift,
but here, beneath these blankets,
the kitchen is already alight with fire.

I touch her—slow, savoring,
like tracing the edge of a dream made flesh.
She shivers, she stirs,
her breath quickens against my throat.
"Mm," she murmurs, a wicked smile playing at her lips,
"I can see my breakfast is ready."
Then, before I can respond
she disappears beneath the sheets,
and I laugh, running a hand through my hair,
shaking my head at the inevitability of it all.

Because Sundays are for breakfast in bed.