I want a Sunday kind of love—one that is as comforting and warm as my favorite soft robe tied tight around my breasts on a foggy morning.

The kind of morning that licks at my consciousness and makes me still feel as if I’m dreaming—that hazy blur where reality and my burning desire collides.

A love that wakes up with the sun, lips against my shoulder smelling of last night’s whiskey kisses, strong hands pulling me close, nestled into the soft voluptuousness of my breasts and grabbing hold of your dreams, the fit of an arm around my waist.

Our Saturday clothes full of adventure and sunlight will be left carelessly crumpled on the floor of my room, little bits of leaves and dirt scattered about—now nothing more than just artifacts of our late night walk in the rain, but still smelling like rusty promises and a desire so hot it will singe your fingertips as they slowly UnCloth me.

I want a Sunday kind of love.

Although you’ve been undressing me for a while now—first my skepticism and sarcasm fell from my shoulders like heavy stones to the bottom of a cold rushing river; I stepped out of my insecurities and fears while you held my hand and that now seem to have been misplaced somewhere along the way.

My masks of who and what I should be that I wore for far too long now collect dust and seem like nothing but sad old memories that I have no need to cling to any longer.

Just when I will believe I couldn’t bare any more of myself to you, you’ll take your hands and draw the soft blue cotton of my dress up around my hips, my waist, exposing my breasts, over my head tossing it…

Credit: http://ikengachronicles.com/a-sunday-kind-of-love-adult/

hmmm

No go church. Dey there de find sunday kind of love.
Good work though.