Sweet Sunday,
sweet dreams linger in the shades,
sweet softness of your skin
still sleeping in the sheets.
Sunday, Sunday, the laziness remains
in my limbs,
whispers caress my ears
and I know there won’t be
Monday.
Sunday, Sunday,
come and lay beside me,
two in one,
let us melt into the nothingness
of everything.
8 comments:
Baby got back! In bright, pop colors too! I love the poem ... as I always do! :)
Towards spring with pop colours, Mick! yeah!
What a great painting and the poem what could I say......nothing more to say
Thanks, Trijnie, need to say no more!
If every day could be a summer Sunday? Or maybe then you would be out of bed a bit earlier?
Beautiful. (ANd how is Monday?)
Monday was quite allright, in real life, HPY, in the poem I believe Monday sucks!
Peter, maybe it's a matter of attitude to regard all days like summer Sundays....?
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