Sunday Morning

     
Pressed against me, in my kitchen
on a Sunday morning;
there is only coffee, and time; no doubt.
Fall on me, come breathe your soul
out; ecstasy out loud,
risen up
and laid down
without the soft-veiled fight,
cried out
in a river
of viscose light
from all our universal stars;
show me,
one by one,
your newest scars - 
tender,
that I have not 
seen;
let me kiss them, accept them,
like they have always been, for you
cannot
ever 
be changed:
your insides
bear
my name,
written through and side to side;
your crimson,
my blue skies,
we are bound by the glorious purple;
a beautiful love
welcome passion-burden, 
raw truth - 
cut me open,
my insides read: one word,
only: you.