Waking Up On Sundays

I see you.

Sleepy eyes. A half smile.

Your outstretched hands caress
my ruffled raven hair.
The murmured sweet nothings
flood us with innocent light,
and I bathe in the beauty that I see,
clad in satin, unadorned and free,
unfettered by Shiseido and Lipfinity.

The colors that you borrow
seem not here today.
But I will not miss them,
I like the way you are.
The freckles on your skin
are colors unto themselves.

Seeing you on Sundays
always happen like a dream,
a flash in the pan,
then suddenly gone.

And I am left tracing the outline
of the shadows of the trees,
while I run by my lonesome.