Simple Morning At Your Place

I’d like to cook you breakfast and drink mimosas
made with the cheapest champagne, mixed
with the smallest amount of orange juice.

I’d like you to see how beautiful you are
in Sunday morning light, lifting Saturday
from your eyes.

I’d like for your oak floor’s creek
to break silence, as your tired strides
carry you down the hall.

I’d like to run my hand over your cheek,
so, when this memory fades, at least
I’ll remember the contour.

I’d like to keep the coming week
far enough into the afternoon,
to not matter at all.