My paradise is a Sunday morning.

Not too early,
yet not too soon.
The sun isn’t totally up
but the sky isn’t maroon.

You’re still on your flannels,
messy haired and thick glasses
stretching out every muscle,
in last night messes.

I fall into your arms,
I feel your hot breath;
like the leaves fall outside,
like the sun slowly sets.

You smelled the freshly brewed coffee
and beelined for a cup.
You fished through empty cabinets
but only found a chipped mug.

The Beatles suddenly come up.
A mischievous grin glimpses through me
You bow, and twist, and shout.
Who am I to flee?

You’re not totally awake,
We can barely stand.
As the floor crooks below our feet,
I feel the sheet marks on your hands.

The windows reflected my smile,
the walls trembled with your laughter.
If there wasn’t a before,
surely there wasn’t an after.

There was a right now,
surely there was a right here.
There wasn’t a nervous alarm clock
there was you, there was me.

And in that Sunday morning,
I could swear to whomever would hear
if I could live in a moment
it would be right now, right here.

My paradise is entirely you.

–By Luisa F., 15, Fortaleza, Brazil