Sometimes Sundays

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

Quiet and easy. Music playing. An eclectic mix of new and old, blues and rock, opera and orchestral, R&B and jazz, folk and dance, rap and reggae. Music from every corner of the globe.

I have windows open to the world. Sounds from outside meet and mix with those within. The calling of birds, the baaing of sheep, neighing of horses, occasional barking of dogs. Sometimes a car. I live in the country among trees and hedges, fields and farms, hills and valleys, streams and secret places. Away from the grimy rush and flow of the city.

There is a stillness about today. It is in the light, in the air, in the breeze, in the quiet passing of time. It is in my thoughts. It is in my mind.

I burn patchouli and read poetry. I strum my old acoustic guitar, strings and frets familiar beneath my fingers.

I think of you. Your beauty and your smile. Sensual and warm. Your body. A heaven of curves.

I enjoy the ache. The longing. The yearning. Today it is not wild. Yet it is constant. An endless prayer of desire.

I write words. Some of which you will read.

The afternoon stretches and breathes.

I think of you.

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Sometimes Sundays

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

Quiet and easy. Music playing. An eclectic mix of new and old, blues and rock, opera and orchestral, R&B and jazz, folk and dance, rap and reggae. Music from every corner of the globe.

I have windows open to the world. Sounds from outside meet and mix with those within. The calling of birds, the baaing of sheep, neighing of horses, occasional barking of dogs. Sometimes a car. I live in the country among trees and hedges, fields and farms, hills and valleys, streams and secret places. Away from the grimy rush and flow of the city.

There is a stillness about today. It is in the light, in the air, in the breeze, in the quiet passing of time. It is in my thoughts. It is in my mind.

I burn patchouli and read poetry. I strum my old acoustic guitar, strings and frets familiar beneath my fingers.

I think of you. Your beauty and your smile. Sensual and warm. Your body. A heaven of curves.

I enjoy the ache. The longing. The yearning. Today it is not wild. Yet it is constant. An endless prayer of desire.

I write words. Some of which you will read.

The afternoon stretches and breathes.

I think of you.

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer