Looking down on these bright blue city lights.

Sunday nights are for:

Dostoevskian musings.

Tank tops and comfortable shorts.

Fresh cut lavender and dark roast coffee beans.

Sunday nights are for:

Finding all the hair elastics I’ve scattered about the house.

Half-drunk water glasses, reflecting a sleepy, satisfied sunset.

Placing my shirt, shorts, and running shoes at the front door.

Finding the good athletic socks.

Sunday nights are for:

Watching the final stage of the Tour de France, mesmerized.

Post-Tour living room workouts.

Sunday nights are for:

Monday work-meals. (Peanut butter and jam sandwich; salad with homemade dressing; cucumber slices and cherry tomatoes.)

The Lumineers

Sunday nights are for:

Scribbling and scribing.

Dreams and delighting.

Sunday nights are for:

A subtle breeze cooling the heat of my cheeks.

Kitten kisses.

Sweeping up the fallen rose petals.

Painting the nails on my hands, but not on my feet.

Sunday nights are for:

Washing the weekend’s campfire from my long, blond locks.

Long walks, and whispered talks.

Sunday nights are for:

Memories

Sunday nights are for:

You and Me.

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