Sunday is love.

Sundays are quickly becoming a beloved retreat, one in which I escape from my life as I know it. Instead of following the obligatory current of responsibility, the hours become lazy mornings in bed and afternoons dallying through leisurely moments. Sundays are pillow-talk, cheek-aching smiles, peaceful drives through rolling hills, movies on the couch and big, homemade breakfasts. I loathe their end as it means the week will reclaim me and torture my soul with a likely, lonely 5 nights of troublesome sleep. The enemy inevitably approaches [the mundane week, that is] to soon abduct its unwilling captive.