No titles, just words

You’re my Sunday morning.  I liken you to that lazy feeling of sliding out of bed when the house is still and all of the creaks from the night have settled.  You’re my cold feet on the floor in the summer.  You are the warmth of wool socks in the winter.  Everything that comforts me comes along the same substance of whatever created you.

Sunday should be the day where the world doesn’t exist.  I want to spend lifetimes with you in a single day and trade the weather and the seasons in each.  Every sunset finds another Sunday.  Every morning it is again as well.

You are my Sunday.
You are what I look forward to with every day that passes.
Spend some time with me on the cold floor.

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