Here I am in a white shirt - two sizes larger than necessary, because it is his. It smells like him. And a little like me. I play with the buttons, lazily sort through my hair, reach for a cup, and gentle jazz plays from the speakers.

My man - he is not a fiction. I feel him in the touch of a draft, in a drop of coffee on my lips, in a warm blanket with which I talk in a whisper... He should be near - with that very look from which my tummy trembles and my thoughts get confused. With whom silence is tastier than talking.

I am not perfect. Sometimes I'm capricious, sometimes funny, but I'm always real. I know how to listen. And if you're ready to be frank, I'll open up like a flower. Just don't rush. Undress not the body, but the soul. Kiss the thoughts first.
And how do you spend your lazy Sunday mornings?..
Maybe next time we'll wake up together?