i notice the smell of coffee before i even open my eyes.
the light is pouring in through the slats of the blinds and i hear you humming in the kitchen.
i roll out of bed and walk up behind you.
i wrap my arms around your waist and press my face into the small of your bare back.
you feel like home.
you chuckle and whisper “good morning” as you spin around to hand me a warm mug.
there’s lowfi music playing gently from our speakers as i cross the room to the sofa.
as i set my cup down you spin me back around.
“i’m too sleepy” i grumble almost incoherently
“dance with me” you pull me in a soft embrace and lead me in a dance. it’s more of a gentle sway in our tiny kitchen area but it feels magickal nonetheless.
i share with you the experiences i had in my dreams the night before as you grumpily glare at the clues to your crossword.
we start breakfast together, and almost burn the biscuits, but my homemade gravy really pulls it all together; at least that’s what you tell me.
it’s in these little moments,
wrapped up in a million tiny touches and stares,
that i get so lost in the idea of us.
you and me and our tiny home and our tiny family
this has become my happiest place
— sunday mornings