I want the lazy way you roll out of bed, or back into bed, your arm draping over the blanket and your body semi-curled up, though you’ll furiously deny that’s how you sleep.
I want the fresh-out-of-the-shower you, hair dripping and wet feet making a puddle on the linoleum.
I want the brunch-in-bed you, the come cuddle me you, the sleepy, dreamy kisses on my cheek you.
When your half-asleep and pull me closer to your chest, I want that.
When you come home from church and your head’s filled with wonderful, crazy ideas and verses, I want that.
When you’re nestled on the couch with two different socks and a leftover slice of peperoni pizza watching football, I want that.
I want the you with your hair unbrushed, shirt untucked, and eyes heavy with sleep. I want the you that doesn’t demand attention, that is content holding me, that thinks the world of us and wants nothing than to spend time together, talking, cuddling, being lazy.
Yes, I want you on a Sunday afternoon.
When the windows are cracked and the breeze blows in, when the blankets are pooled around us, when we have nowhere to be and hours to learn each other’s minds and hearts—that’s when I want you.
Yes, I want you in all the ways—a Friday at the bar, a Saturday out with friends, a Tuesday night when we’re both exhausted from work. But I especially want you on a Sunday. On a day without obligations, plans, schedules. An afternoon that seems like it’s created just for us, for warm skin, fingertips intertwined, my legs on your lap and two glasses of wine on the table. The hours stretched out like promises, an eternity to fall in love.