Sunday mornings

Sunday sunrises are of broken hearts
Of hidden tears lost beneath
cover of duvets
For lost hours speant toiling, leaving loving hearts pining and unfulfilled.
Infecting with clinging embraces, faces buried in the soft curving junction between neck and shoulder.
Furious meetings of lips
and bare feet growing colder on stony hard ground.
Worn brass gate handles and smooth bolts
and weathered unpolished wood under fingers wanting only for the warm soft skin of him.
The small wave and click and whir of gears and puffs of vapour escaping from lungs
Then gone.
Empty rooms
and waiting.