I don’t want a thing
on Saturday mornings—
just my favorite songs
playing low.

I don’t want to leave the bed,
just stay there,
holding you tightly,
all day long.

Let me sit cross-legged,
tea in one hand,
and you in the other—
sipping both,
slowly.

O baby, I miss you
in the soft, slow mornings,
in the hush of lazy noon,
and in the quiet of calm evenings.

You know I feel alone here.
I just want to come home—
to run into your arms,
and kiss you like wildfire.

Let’s share a cup of tea,
under our fairy lights,
like old days.
Then we’ll
become one, like a prayer.

Baby, I am in love with the
sparks inside you.
Can I call it hope?

Maybe it’s you, or myself.
I’m not sure—
maybe it’s both of us.

But I know it’s the
angel we dreamed of
for centuries.

Can we call it hope?