Sundays
today never happened
Oh, how the wind blew on Sunday mornings.
The low horizon exploding pink with yesterday’s memory.
He liked Sundays. He spent them in bed watching the stars drip-drop from the sky.
Watching the sun come alive and awaken the birds.
He spent these days without real clothes on. With his hair a mess.
He liked Sundays because he didn’t have to work.
He could spend hours alone with the spring air. Pretending to kiss the man he once loved.
Or at least he thought he had loved.
Or at least he thought he was real.
Sunday’s never made sense anymore.
The low horizon exploding pink with yesterday’s memory.
He liked Sundays. He spent them in bed watching the stars drip-drop from the sky.
Watching the sun come alive and awaken the birds.
He spent these days without real clothes on. With his hair a mess.
He liked Sundays because he didn’t have to work.
He could spend hours alone with the spring air. Pretending to kiss the man he once loved.
Or at least he thought he had loved.
Or at least he thought he was real.
Sunday’s never made sense anymore.