I haven’t slept beneath the Sunday sun with you for a while,
but every so often,
I slip into a scene,
in which I do.
I always wake up in a bittersweet mood,
when I’ve spent the night inside my mind,
inside of your arms (if it sounds complicated, that’s because it is complicated),
because while it’s nice to see you,
and to almost feel you,
I just spend the next day languishing in my longing,
writing songs that I’m too shy to show you (until Valentine’s Day, when it feels appropriate, and even necessary),
and spending far longer than is healthy,
staring at my favourite picture of you.
It just doesn’t do,
but it’s all I can do,
until the next Sunday comes,
not just any one, of course,
but one where we are asleep in your bed,
and your embrace is as real as the sun that sleeps above us.