Sundays

Sundays

By Nandini Sethi

You are the sunlight filtering through our cracked window, you are the little specks of magic floating in the air. The soft music that fills the room, the thick comforter that warms me on this cold morning. The bitter coffee that you brew for me, the unsalted eggs that you make for me. You are soft and sweet, and I can’t live without you. You are my Sunday morning.

I lose my fingers in the depths of your coffee curls, I lose my senses in the depth of your unblinking eyes. The blue jumper you wear makes my nose tingle with the smell of your cheap perfume; I breathe in deeply to treasure your scent. I love you and your pudgy nose. You are my Sunday afternoon.

You gather your clothes and begin packing them into your suitcase, I can see your unwashed denim strewn on the floor, and I breathe a silent little prayer that you don’t have to go. Without you I am terrible alone, I know you are busy and have things to do, but the house gets so quiet when you are away. The days turn dark so quickly, and each tick of the clock awaits your return. The couch misses the curves of your body, and the windows miss the mist from your sweet breath. You are my Sunday evening.

Don’t mind my tears, I’ll get used to my misery; you should know how proud I am of you for all that you’ve achieved. Your new place seems nice, and all of your friends sound great. They say the daylight brings happiness and warmth, but when will that begin for me?
You are speaking softly to me as we lay on our big bed that seems so small with you here, and each passing moment weighs down on my eyelids. I don’t want to fall asleep, I don’t want this day to end; I love you more than I hate these Monday mornings, I love you a tiny bit more every single day. You are my Sunday Night.


Nandini Sethi
Nandini Sethi

Sometimes dolefully insightful, sometimes plain distressed state of mind, but always love. I think there’s a bit of love in everything we write. 

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