Sunday

 Sunday morning comes.

 

And we lie in bed.

 

Hugging, talking, and laughing.

 

In between, I kiss your neck.

 

My heart pours out.

 

All my feelings for you. 

 

“I have never been so in love!”

 

Is what I whisper in your ear. 

 

 

After an hour.

 

I must have told you a “million” times.

 

“How beautiful you are.”

 

And “How much I love you.” 

 

I worry that you’ll tire of me saying it.

 

However, you say, “no.”

 

Which puts my nerves at ease. 

 

 

We finally get up.

 

Eat breakfast and food shop. 

 

As afternoon comes.

 

You kindly console me.

 

As the Jets lose another game.

 

 

But the clock ticks and ticks.

 

It’s coming to that dreaded hour.

When it’s time for us to part.

 

You must get ready.

 

For your work week. 

 

And I must pick Evan up. 

 

Ugh!!!

 

 

My love for you grows and grows.

 

In ways that I did not think possible. 

 

You’d think after eight months.

 

I’d be accustomed to the week apart. 

 

But it only gets harder. 

 

 

What is wrong with me?

 

I feel like a melancholy teen.

 

Not a fifty-six-year-old man.

 

This must be what love.

 

In its purist form.

 

Feels like. 

 

 

I yearn for next autumn. 

 

When we shall be together.

 

Day and night.

 

Night and Day. 

 

For now. 

 

All I can do. 

 

Is wait.