Sundays

On Sunday mornings, you and I would peel oranges

for breakfast and sit quietly at the kitchen table, the world melting

away. You go to the bathroom first, start running a warm shower,

our favorite soap slides between our fingers, water running

down my back, in between my thighs. I’m submerged

in your world when I’m standing next to you in our yellow

bathroom where the sunshine breaks through our cracked yellow

window panes. I like how quiet it is between us, the smell of oranges

fills my nostrils from the tips of your fingers as you submerge

them in my scalp. I will smell like melted

parts of you for the rest of the day. I like that when the water stops running

you squeeze me and kiss me on the shoulder, showered

in silence. I love that we never speak a word all day, showering

each other in our hands, our eyes, our own made up yellow

language. Sitting on the couch we practice miming, run

our palms over invisible words, our lips turn orange

from disuse. We turn on The Office for the thousandth time, melt

into each other so that limbs start and end in new places, submerge

ourselves further into each other and silence. The submersion

of silence deepens our connection and our bodies shower

the couch in blankets and snacks, a forgotten piece of chocolate melts

into the fibers of the couch while we wrestle under the yellow

blanket. Laughter fills our bubble as you poke at my sides. Orange

floods my nostrils from your throat and fingertips, and I run

the idea in my head that I’ve never used my senses before you. You run

over ridges and curves speaking to me through touch submerged

in my skin. Electricity prickles below the layers, nerves synapse orange

messages to my brain. I can understand the words without the shower

of your voice. I pull the blanket taut and in the yellow

light breaking through the woven fabric, I can see your face smiling above at me as we melt

into a single form. Somewhere beyond the blanket is the melting

sun, strokes grazing the clouds in golden, a little bit of orange running

down the sky like a Dali painting. The sunset fills our home with the most yellow

I have seen this season. And today, of all the Sundays we’ve submerged

ourselves in, is my favorite. I feel arms wrap around my waist, a small shower

of your love. And the descending day reminds us that we’ve gone hours since eating our oranges

and it is time to eat again. Yellow plates set on a melting

table where orange skins still sit. Running

our submerged senses into the shower of night.