"Monday. She loves you softly, pale lips and pale hands, her eyelashes on your cheek before dawn. There’s tea in bed, too much milk and the perfect amount of sugar. Your hands can’t stop touching her when you say goodbye. The curve of her waist and the soft of her stomach against your body, a palm against your cheek and a fingertip to your lips.
Tuesday. Playful, her kisses toothy against your mouth. A smile when she whispers how she loves you as much as she loves peanut butter, lips against your earlobe. She paints eyelashes black, looks up at you through them, dusts powder across her freckles and stains her cheeks pink. She’s all teeth and hands when you say goodbye, a ribbon in her hair.
Wednesday. Her side of the bed is cold, early light filtered through the curtains to stain the sheets. When you find her, there are shaky kisses, fumbled hands against your skin. Her fingertips are warm and nervous and her lips are already coloured with coffee stains. She doesn’t say goodbye but the door slams on her departure and you finish the coffee in the pot, hide the cold side of the bed.
Thursday. She loves you fiercely, wildly. There are red lips, smudged at the corners and blurred across your cheek. Her teeth scrape your collarbone in that place somewhere between dreams and consciousness. She pulls the blanket with her when she rises it, drops it on the kitchen floor, kisses like maybe you are made of oxygen or peanut butter.
Friday. In the morning, before the sun has fully risen, she presses her lips to yours. Neither of you are asleep, but still not quite awake, but her hands reach for you across the distance. You think that it must be love, the way she sets your skin on fire in the late afternoon, burns you from the inside out in the evening. She is a black silk shirt, a gentle touch, wine-painted lips under dimmed lights.
Saturday. The brush of her skin against your sides, your face cupped in her hands. Cold palm to your cheek, she brings you to consciousness, fingertips made of fresh roses and sleep. She makes toast spread thick with apricot jam, leftovers from the weekend before. There are crumbs through the sheets and her smile is pink, gentle, smearing jam from the corner of your mouth.
Sunday. Warm, she lies beside you until the sun is high. The sheets lose their light, the heat along with it, her body soft against your side. There are whispers against skin, chapped lips and promises, coffee gone cold on the nightstand. Her heartbeat through a cotton nightshirt, beating confessions against her chest, against the palm of your hand pressed to her."
, “The Daily Lover” (via petrichour