When Sunday comes a callin'

I'm the type of girl who picks up frogs.
And my real love looks at me like I hung the moon upside down.
And he likes it, just that way.
So I let the frog go, and he croaks a happy "goodnight",
the pond only a few hops away.

Then there is ice cream, and I try a little of his
and he a little of mine, then a little more.
And air blows warm and late summer fragrant.
He was going to wear his pajama pants to Dairy Queen
I was ok with that. He changed into jeans.
I'm ok with that too.

The couch sits waiting. We take our spots.
He always reaches for my hand.
There is never not contact.
And more than once a day or night
I catch him looking at me
and I say, "What?"
Because it unnerves me.
His bright, blue eyes focused only on me.

And we love to watch History, or Discovery,
or anything that causes us to learn, and then
debate.

I'm the type of girl who believes in ghosts
and he's the type of guy who asks me, "why?"