doing nothing is doing everything languidly on sunday morning.
sounds of birds chirping mix with those of car alarms
as we finally arise from your bed at an early hour of 3 p.m.
we accomplish many things: making pancakes, suntanning half-naked, passing quizzes on Sporcle.
and i never want to do another thing again in my life.
i want to spend my life watching you hold on to those last moments of sleep,
in between ‘90s pop songs and goose covers and strewn clothes.
i want to trace our life on the back of your neck,
and give you chills about our big baby-ridden future together.
i want your arm across me forever, like a seatbelt, shielding me from danger.
i want us to get wrinkly, and grey, and still brag about our amazing sex life.
and I want us to always speak the same language: apart from the world.