Pancakes Sunday Morning

Cold grey of the approaching autumn, gun-metal october sky and the rain that goes with it, the kind that gets into your socks and bottoms of your pants and chills you to your bones. We built a fire and just stayed on the couch, I love the feeling of both of those arms encircling me, and how he doesn't easily let go. We stayed on the couch orange glow of the fireplace I felt bad with Anne in the basement and all these thoughts rattling around in my head, but I was glad that you were there with me. There is so much more that I want to tell you. Grey raindrops hitting window pane and how warm it is within the space between your arms, how I fit totally inside there, your breath on my neck and the scratch of your stubble. One more time, and again and again and again. A world full of rainy autumn sundays and the cold tempered by the fire and wet wool socks drying, the beautiful saddness of something that has passed and the joy of the future now, and you, all the way, to the core of me. I don't want to hide anything or be strong this time. I don't want to hide or be strong and I want to be able to tell you that in plain english, in a way that will make you understand everything that goes along with it.