Not Just For Sundays
What about what you want from love -
a morning brew, the steam that curls,
on Sunday cold, in blankets deep,
while outside, the quiet world swirls.
What about the flowers you choose -
soft petals wrapped in winter light,
handed to her with a silent wish,
to see her smile, your heart taking flight.
What about the song, a melody sweet -
her voice, though off-key, fills the air,
played again, for no reason at all,
just to hear her laugh, so full, so rare.
What about the quiet, shared gaze -
eyes that speak without a word,
in the stillness of a morning spent,
where love is felt, not just heard.
As a woman, I dream to be wanted like that -
to be seen, cherished, held close,
but by Monday, I’m forgotten,
left with the ache of Sunday’s ghost.
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