Not Just For Sundays

What about what you want from love - a morning brew, the steam that curls, on Sunday cold, in blankets deep, while outside, the quiet world swirls. What about the flowers you choose - soft petals wrapped in winter light, handed to her with a silent wish, to see her smile, your heart taking flight. What about the song, a melody sweet - her voice, though off-key, fills the air, played again, for no reason at all, just to hear her laugh, so full, so rare. What about the quiet, shared gaze - eyes that speak without a word, in the stillness of a morning spent, where love is felt, not just heard. As a woman, I dream to be wanted like that - to be seen, cherished, held close, but by Monday, I’m forgotten, left with the ache of Sunday’s ghost.