You silly. You crazy little bird. Kicking my shins in the sun. Under the blue covers. Under the white sky of quilt and cozy warm light reflecting off the walls. Silly shimmery sun. You're just a crazy little bird. You silly.

Morning rolls up on us like a surprise party complete with balloons and streamers and a cake decorated with rainbow sprinkles and candles that keep burning after you've blown them out. And your name is written on top in curving yellow letters.

I'm going to write us a shelter. A house with just one big bed and a fireplace. And white quilts that fly snapped in the sun to absorb the smell of spring while they dry on rope strung from here to there. I'm going to write rainy days and hot humid sweat days and bitter days. Cold days when you can't feel your toes. And I'm going to write crisp days like this one. Autumn mornings like this with the windows open and the air is cold when it visits in the morning, but just a little tummy rub and it's hot by noontime. And what about love. What should I write, what should I believe, Love. Something someone told me. Something I saw on tv. Some song on the radio. I may not believe in love, but baby I believe in you. In your arms and your legs and the knots we make in this morning light. I'm going to write this light. I'm going to write it in blue and white and all over surrounding us. Spilling in from open windows and floating curtains. I'm going to write this light that knit these sheets that illuminate your face and make your eyes sing the sweetest song. With a smile like yours you'll never have to worry.

Hey Travis, why do you have to sing like that? Don't get me wrong, I like it. Look at you. Just a guitar and a smile, your skin in the sunlight. Sunday morning and there's nowhere else I'd rather be and I hope you feel the same way too. Let's get on the same page. Ride the same wave and catch the same drift. Can we never leave this room? Can you make that song last forever? I'm not sure I'm ready to stand up, get out of bed and I kind of like the way you look right now. Can you just keep on singing and we'll stay in this perfect for a while longer? Just sing.

When discussing us, when discussing the you-and-I of it all, can "we" really be the word? It should be "I," I think. Because where am I when I'm not here? Counting the time, I think. Watching the sun and it's arc and waiting for a Sunday morning when you belong to me. Just me. And who knows if the world outside even exists. Who knows what war and trouble and imminent disaster is making its way to our door.

If the world revolved around us, would we redefine the galaxy and be two stars burning side by side? Or would we be one light; spitting flame until we self-destruct and float in darkness? Content, but cold, searching the universe for a world that revolves around a star and not an ego or two; relieving us of the burden of godliness and gravity.

Aww Travis. In this lolling Sunday morning ho-hum there's nowhere to be but now and there's no time limit to this and you can just go on playing that song forever and I'm gonna dance my fingers around this pillow and I'm gonna kick my feet around to that crazy little song, that silly little tune that you play for me. Just for me.