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Am I the only one who wants a trail of flowers up the stairs to the bedroom?

To come home to Norah Jones and Ninna Simone, candles devouring every edge of every window sill?

To lay on the floor by the fire as it cackles and moans, on that small rug—there, with your head in my lap as I read to you the greats?

Am I the only one who doesn’t give a damn about dinner, who when I want you—would rather devour your limbs naked and let dinner burn?

Who would rather spend the morning in a heap of lips, limbs, French press, laughter and slow groans, than reading the paper and ironing out life?

Who wakes up and reaches for lips before stocks, emails and big kid sh*t?

Who isn’t afraid after a long day and night of a face hidden behind work to come close your laptop, bite your neck and pull you into a bubble bath, lay your weary head against my chest?

Does anyone else still want love notes, poems in ink, dried flowers and dates that require more imagination than bumping forks and Hollywood’s next big hit?

 

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Love elephant and want to go steady?

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Author: Janne Robinson

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: courtesy of the author, flickr