Sunday mornings are my favorite,
always.
There was no rush, and I got to spend
my time in your corner, exploring the
dark that creates your light.
We move slow, savoring each moment
until we go.
I can see you, still, with your hair
pulled back, smiling only when I
came around.
I miss you most on Sunday mornings,
drinking orange juice.
I toast to you, and whomever is
making you happy now.
Sunday mornings are my favorite,
always.