poetry

Benjamin Nyle Wallman

By Amy Thomson

My Sunday morning
needs no warning,
no alarm,
pure charm
dances on your sleeping eyelids,
dusting your face
with a trace
of lust.
I must be your little spoon,
stir my Sunday coffee,
a little sugar
licks my lips.
Pull my hips
into your corner.
The world’s horror
dissolves
into eleven am.
Resolved by noon.
Framed by you,
my gemstone,
perfectly calm,
trace your palm,
give you powers.
“You got me flowers?”
Hit snooze,
I’ll lose
nothing
save for stolen glances.
What are the chances
I’ve found you?

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