tell me your Mondays are sleepy and saturated
with an unquenchable thirst for Sundays spent under the covers with me,
tell me you’ll dance in rainstorms when they come
and tell me you won’t forget
the mornings we’d stay in bed for hours and the walks we would take only for necessary supplies: croissants with whiskey in our coffee,
tell me you like that I’m just as good
at being bad as you are;
tell me my laughter has become
your favorite sound
and when you first open your eyes beside me, awaken my spine with a trail of kisses
and my heart with the sound of your voice near my ear
whispering “bom dia,” good morning in my native tongue,
as you bring me back to this moment, this life,
and out of the mediocre existence
my heart had for so long settled for.
Dance with me in the kitchen
to all the songs we have yet to call our own
and let me feed you, body and soul,
read you poetry while we lounge in the comfort of the four walls
and two arms I’ve turned into home,
and when the sun fills my eyes with pools of honey tell me I’m beautiful as if you have never seen me before and run your hands over my body to memorize every curve, every ridge, every scar…
If I were looking for just another someone
I would’ve settled long ago.
tell me we were made
for this type of magic.
this type of love.