A Sunday Kind of Love

I think when you're in your twenties, the idea of love becomes overwhelming all of a sudden. Or perhaps, when your heart gets destroyed all of a sudden, love is overwhelming. Maybe love is overwhelming because I spend too much time reading the poems of Pablo Neruda.

Dreaming about a seemingly unrealistic love keeps me hopeful, and focused, 

so I will write.

A Sunday kind of love: a love to last past Saturday night. A Sunday kind of love has been through the chaos and excitement of Friday and Saturday, and craves to stay in bed with you as long as Sunday will allow. A Sunday kind of love is ready to take on the Mondays,Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays with patience and forgiveness. I want a Sunday kind of love that breathes easy and reminds me to do the same. A Sunday kind of love rests on the cool grass and watches the sky change colors in silence that's not quite silence. In the darkest nights, a Sunday kind of love wraps you up when your fears are creeping from under the bed.

The waves crash onto the sand and the salt floats through the thick air onto your vulnerable skin, but a Sunday kind of love mends the cuts. A Sunday kind of love holds tightly to your hand until the world eases its grip. I want a Sunday kind of love that tenderly recollects passionate nights over blueberry pancakes and laughing eyes. A sunrise is nothing in comparison to the compassion that emits from the golden eyes of a Sunday kind of love. When your eyes close from the harshness of the world, a Sunday kind of love encourages you to continue dreaming.

I want a Sunday kind of love that dreams along with me.