Sundays smell like the soft summer breeze of your last teenage years
they encompass the wind kissing your skin
urging you 
to move on

Sundays taste like the jasmine vines growing on the fence of your childhood home
the sweet honey that seeps out of their petals rests lightly on your tongue
before the taste leaves your lips
and a sticky feeling replaces all the sweetness that once was there

Sundays hold the hum of a thousand birds whispering secrets into your ears
they sing to you your favorite lost song
the one you loved before you grew up
but the one you will always tap your foot to when it plays on the radio

Sundays feel like the wispy grass that you lay in under the stars
the reeds grazed your skin
and the daisies that entwined in your hair
made it feel like the whole world was on your side

Sundays are for the dreamers
for all those who never gave up
for those who still wish
and for those who felt that time all but slipped through their fingers
never being able to hold it all forever