Sunday morning

On Sunday morning the coffee always tastes different, as if infused with memories wafting towards me, mingling with the notes of lonesome country, filling my head with daydreams. Each drop reaching my lips the warmth of a thousand kisses which were and a infinite number which were never meant to be. My hands caress the cup as I pull myself into the corner and remember what it was like to hold you, to be held by you, while silken cascades of liquid across my tongue recall the smooth softness of your skin. The harsh lamplight’s glare scatters in the ripples, like city lights we never kissed beneath and settles to the glowing light of the same moon under which we found our peace for just a moment. Deeply breathing steamy air, I remember the smell of your hair the summer you made my body your home, and across the years your voice still whispers those words you will never say again.

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