Sunday Morning Smiles

The sun woke slow today,

like it knew there was no rush.

The air smelled of fresh bread and forgotten deadlines.

Even the birds sang softer —

like they were tired of competing with chaos.

I poured coffee,

watched it swirl like galaxies in a cup,

and thought — maybe this is heaven.

Not golden gates,

just a quiet kitchen

where peace finally sits beside you

and doesn’t ask for anything.

A child laughed outside —

that kind of laugh that cleans your soul.

A dog barked once,

then twice,

then decided that was enough work for the day.

The city still sleeps,

and for once,

no one’s in a hurry to wake it.

Because Sunday mornings aren’t for racing.

They’re for remembering you’re still alive.