That Sunday Kind Of Love
7.1.13 at 00:22.
I give that....
We sat across from one another, forcing ourselves not to make eye contact. Overly interacting with our fellow diners and burying our faces in the lamented menus that the perky waitress had presented to us upon arrival. Still riding our rhythm and libation high, we would occasionally share a laugh or two when reminiscing on the club scenes we endured mere hours ago. Our plates arrived and we ate under a haze-like silence in which our minds played out what was to come. You excused yourself to visit the facilities and that's when it happened. Your hand, while reaching out to grab the side of the table as a leverage aide, grazed mine. Both of our necks whipped about with such force that my eyes lost their ability to focus for a brief second or two. We connected and found our bodies uncontrollably pulling towards each other. In a desperate attempt to block the inevitable, I loudly summoned the waitress to ask for the check. You, taking advantage of the lapse, rushed off to the bathroom. I stood waiting for you at the door, having already paid the bill and donned my coat. We caught a cab and endured one of the most tortured rides of our brief relationship. Sitting on opposite ends of the backseat, our fingers instinctively reached for each other across the seat. Time itself was our foe, for she was dragging with such defiance. Upon entering your front door, what was preordained began than ended. began than ended. and began and ended again.
Sunday morning light, I stretched my limbs in the warmth of the sun gleaming upon me through a slit in the blinds. There you lay, your face as calm and tranquil as one who had achieved a lifetime of transcendence. Kissing the tip of my finger, I placed it against your lips and whispered a good morning against your cheek. I rolled my vaguely sore, naked form lightly out of bed and walked to the kitchen in search of the kettle. Your home began to smell of cinnamon and butter, avocado and spice. You arose within 30 minutes of the wafting flavor clouds to join me at the stove. You stood behind me for quite some time. I knew. I felt your stare. You walked up behind and turned me to face you, there we stood lost in each other's eyes. You said to me that I was one of a kind, that you didn't understand how I could be so familiar in touch and aura. You asked me why I still treated you so tender after so much time apart. My reply was a simple one: I loved you then and I love you still, why would time change my love?
That 'morning-after' tea love.
That snuggle and talk love.
That 'tell me what you need' love
That kiss you on the eyelid love
That dry you off after we shower love
That stroke your head on my lap love
That hold you while we read love
That interlocking fingers love
That slowdance atop the bed love
I give that Sunday kind of love.
It's not overwhelming yet it is far from transparent
It lays dormant until circumstance beckons
It is warm and gentle, it listens and it heals
It nurtures on the dark days and cheers on the light ones.
It defends with the care of a mother to her cub
It embraces when it is needed most
and excuses itself when it is cared for least.
That Sunday kind of love.