Oct 25, 2025
Soft Saturdays
I pictured it this way: Your face framed by the patina of golden sunlight, eyes amber, lips ruby jewels, like fruit ripening in the warm summer rain. Even the wind, shy with devotion, moves only to brush your hair that clings to your shoulders in piles like autumn leaves on soft Saturdays, & even softer Sundays, marked by the rise and fall of feeling & your chest against mine. By evening, how the morning forgets itself, how rooms swell with colour, ochre, ultramarine, a fever of gold, smudged into heat and pigment, like the rouge on your cheek, turned bronze by moonlight as if the night (for a moment) is learning to see you as I do since you're my sunshine.
