a day with the sun
the evening began with hush—
a room dim with laughter,
limbs tangled like ivy,
the weight of him a comfort
not a cage.
we drank, we watched—
but oh, we spoke, as we always do,
in spirals and soft confessions,
like our words had been waiting
for nightfall to be brave.
his hand found my hip,
like it had always lived there.
his breath was the lull in the storm
I’ve lived inside too long.
we slept like old souls—
not out of exhaustion,
but reverence and peace,
two bodies quieting the noise
by simply being close.
morning came gently,
sunlight slicing through the dark
on quiet wings.
he stirred beside me,
and I didn’t flinch.
not from fear,
not from shame.
just joy
wearing soft lace
and a sleepy smile.
we loved, as we do—
not in spectacle,
but in the slow burn of skin meeting skin,
in the way his mouth found mine
like it always knew the way.
we fit together so perfectly—
not just in the curve of hips or the press of limbs,
but in every sigh, every pause,
every quiet gasp drawn from somewhere deeper.
his hands spoke a language only I understood,
fingertips tracing truths I didn’t know I’d buried.
there was no need to rush—
we had time,
we had each other,
and in that moment,
we were everything the world had tried to steal.
we loved like we were remembering
something we’d done a thousand times before—
something our bodies never forgot.
we walked,
because the world outside
felt easier with him in it.
and in the sun,
we found each other again—
in words and wonder:
the brush of his hands,
the way he listened,
the way he speaks with joy—
my sunshine in every word.
the way he looked
like I was something
he was still choosing.
we made plans like children
sketching futures in the sand,
knowing the tide might come—
but building them anyway.
he held my hand like it meant something.
and when I looked at him,
I saw not just light,
but home.
the day didn’t ask much.
just that we be there,
together,
letting the sun
do what it does best—
remind things how to grow.