Sunday

I always wished you’d come

to me on Sunday afternoons

when the light was soft and

the summer offered jasmine on the breeze.

Filtered through the trees

and my window, the dappled light

made patterns of my crisp white sheets

and I wanted to turn your hands to them,

your back to them, your hips to them.

But you never came. Sunday after Sunday

passed and passes still without you;

just a memory on the breeze, with the jasmine.