It rained on sunday morning

Tracing loops like plane trails,
drawing patterns on your palms.
I coloured in your life line in pink.
Your resistance was soft limbed,
You ruffled my hair.
We watched the river burst its banks
and flow into Thomas’s field
without putting our clothes on.
I tried to make patterns on the window,
joining the dots in the condensation,
until they ran down to the sill and expired.
I painted my name across your shoulders
In dew from the Ivy by the window.
Opening it just enough to make my warm
Skin jump under the freezing rain,
Then pulling my finger tips back in
and running them down your spine.
I think you’re trying to sleep.
I ask you if you are, and you raise
an eyebrow, smile and close your eyes.
I contemplate making tea.
I want it but I don’t want to shatter this
moment with closing doors and cold feet.
The down of sleep lost beneath
towelling dressing gowns and slippers.
“Are you awake?”
No, either that or you are ignoring me.
They are both the wrong response.
I sigh and roll over, wondering if I need
To trim my hair. The ends are splitting.
I want to ask your opinion.
You’ve rolled over so I am facing your back,
maybe you’re angry with me,
I want to wake you up and ask you.
That will probably make you angry.
I stare at the ceiling and continue
Thinking about making tea.