To you, on a Sunday morning

Dear you,

My black-out curtains have never really worked, but I didn’t care about the light peeking through on a Sunday morning then. The beams of light were a hand-delivered invitation to see your face because the early hours and I have always been friends and you tried your best to join our circle. Bleary-eyed and aching for coffee, I loved that face on a Sunday morning then. The spot on your cheek where my lips would eagerly brush, like a puppy’s wet nose nudging you awake, was the perfect canvas for Sunday morning light. Bad morning breath, impossibly long lines at our spot, and even the looming hint of Monday were swept away by your lazy smile on a Sunday morning then.

I do not like my black-out curtains on a Sunday morning now. The defiant light outlines too perfectly the shape of one, and my now bleary-eyed face aches to see yours. Searching for that spot on your cheek that has since disappeared, the light falls elsewhere to places less important. I want this taste out of my mouth. I disregard our sacred brunch place, and entertain troublesome thoughts of Monday, on a Sunday morning now.

It’s much earlier where you are, so I don’t hear your voice on a Sunday morning now. It’ll be afternoon here when you happily call, and I will have opened the curtains and made amends with the sunlight by then. You may never know how hard it is on a Sunday morning now, but I do hope you see that I’m learning to love the light that the afternoon can bring.

I love you then and now, and I cannot wait to see you.



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