Everyday is Saturday night, but I can’t wait for Sunday morning, Sunday morning
Being single is a series of Saturday nights: Arms slung around friends, the music in our ears travel straight down to our soles, drinks sloshed from glasses to shoes, your shoes, their shoes, who knows whose shoes, shoes clawed off and flung into the corner the second you stumble over the threshold. Sleep comes like a Polaroid picture developing in reverse.
Being with the one you love is like a series of Sunday mornings: Knees knocking, breath kicking. Sheet coverage won and lost in the night, forsaken in the name of peace at dawn’s first light. Ears up close are as intricate and intimate as the curve of sea shells. Hair all a mess, his mess, evidence of satisfaction. Happy as larks, nothing but breakfast will lure us from this love nest.