Sunday Morning Blues

On the cusp of a Sunday morning's light,

In the sweet lull that follows Saturday night.

Two hearts beat in rhythm, slow and steady,

Their love, like the day, soft and heady.

She wakes, his arms a cosy retreat,

A sanctuary where love and time meet.

Her skin tingles beneath his gentle caress,

In this moment, they need nothing less.

His voice, a husky whisper in her ear,

Words of love that only she could hear.

A life’s promise, soothing, tender,

In his embrace, she's his only agenda.

Through the window, the sun begins to ascend,

Producing golden splendour where shadows end.

Yet, in their bubble, time seems to halt,

This calm, a rare and precious vault.

Their love, as serene as the Sunday dawn,

A connection deeper than can be drawn.

In the lull of the morning, as soft as dew,

They find solace, something pure and true.

Sunday blues, not of sadness, but peace,

In their love, all worries cease.

Lazily, the day unfurls,

In the silence, their love whirls.

Their laughter unfurls a playful tune,

Under the watch of the sleepy moon.

And as the world stirs from its slumber,

Their love, no storm could encumber.

With languid kisses and slow-burning desire,

They stoke their love's enduring fire.

A love as peaceful as the Sunday morn,

In its tranquility, it’s reborn.

The Sunday Morning Blues, a beautiful sight,

A will of love in the soft daylight.

For in these moments, quiet and still,

Their love is all they need to fulfil.