Sunday’s are the worst…

I want to be wrapped in your arms,
with your touch promising me words
of always, not your half hushed
whispers of things getting better;
actions become facts, and words
become sharpened knives in
battles of broken hearts my dear,
you taught me that once upon
a time – when all I had were
fairy tales and dreams of love.
when I love you meant everything;
where everything else I could
always look the other way on.
Because I loved like the
horizon to the ocean –
never getting to hold them
but still sparking sunsets
and warmth every time I see them,
doing everything in my power to love
them throughout the days and my best
to let them shine alone in the nights.
It’s no longer the dreams come true,
white picket fences and happily
ever afters – it’s wanting to be wrapped
in each other on a Sunday afternoon
kissing and dozing the time away,
with stories of white knights,
damsels and talking frogs, whose
fantasies will never compete with
our own imaginary reality.

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