"I am not used to Sunday loves.
I am not used to curling up with someone under warm duvets
Whispering sweet nothings into their ears
Or kicking back and watching foreign films
Just because 'we felt like it'.
I am not used to having milk in my tea
Or having someone cook an actual meal for me,
Hearing gently murmured 'I love you's
And singing along with someone even if we're terribly off key.
I am not used to any of this and yet,
Yet when I look at her I wonder
Just how sweet Sundays might be
Even if we're up at 3 am too tired to cook
And all we can salvage from the kitchen is cereal.
I look at her and I want to kiss those lips,
Forget how they felt
Just so I have an excuse to discover their wonders
Over and over again.
Unlike all my other lovers she does not like Sundays
Because the day after immediately entails work
Yet I look at her and think how easily I could get used to
Just being around her.
I look at her and all the things I am used to cease to matter
Because there is only her
And she is what matters."
— s.r. // she's my change of heart
