Sunday afternoons,

Will always be our time

Before heartbreak, before pain 

Long before our comfort is disturbed.

Where we’ll drift off during movies

In the dark evenings of autumn

Awkward limbs tangling together

As I reach for the mug in your grips.

Sunday mornings,

Where those pretty eyes look through me

Like they’ve seen a hundred truths,

A thousand days spent together,

And a million little heartbreaks.

Pretty eyes, 

The all-seeing ones,

The one you use to watch me,

As I mouth the melodies we hold dear

To the little vaults we call hearts.

Callused hands, 

That speak a thousand truths,

As I read the braille left from childhood,

Resting on your steady hands.

Darling, with your words like marbled honey,

And your anxious grins,

As you stutter through dialects

With breathtaking charm.

Pretty eyes, you are many things,

But unloved is not one of them.