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March 13, 2015

Because the Chores Can Wait 5 Minutes.

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The laundry calls, but so do your come-hither eyes.

The dishes sing, but so do your strong, calloused fingertips.

The floors are f*cking dirty, but so are your spicy chili pepper spiked thoughts.

 

The chores can wait five minutes.

 

I can’t.

 

I need to be with you.

I need to feel your fingertips sweep the sides of my face.

I need to look into your gold-specked dark chocolate eyes and travel to the juicy depths of your deliciousness.

I need to take your hand and squeeze it so hard that I melt into your skin as we spin through starry nebulas.

I need to lick your lips and taste every ounce of the luscious healing elixir that lives on your tongue.

 

The chores can wait five minutes.

 

There is always more to do, more to finish, more to clean

But there is always more

To feel

To enjoy

To savor.

 

I refuse to be swept away by the busyness of life.

I refuse to crash upon the wretched shores of worry every damn day.

I refuse to let the tingly gems of togetherness slip through my soul.

 

I promise now to be present with you

As often

As

I

Can.

 

Because, darling, we both know,

Those f*cking chores can wait five minutes (or longer).

 

I can’t.

And neither can you.

 

Come here, my love

I need to be with you.

Relephant:

Our Hips hold the Secrets of the Breeze. {Poem}

 

Author: Sarah Harvey

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: Flickr/Gabriel Saldana, flickr

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