Sunday

“Sunday”

I barely breathe these days.
My chest barely rises and falls.
And I am looking for new ways
To talk to the faces in the walls.

But what about Sunday when we…
What about Sunday when we…
I don’t know why I’m scared to say it.
I do not know where the stars go
When the sky is both our blanket.
I don’t know why I’m scared to tell the truth.
I don’t know why I’m scared of you.

My scars are healing, but no one can see.
And it’s all this healing that’s been killing me.
I want a known touch, a familiar skin
I want to see myself smiling at you again,
But pictures of smiles are coming together
Inside of me of you and another.
And I don’t want to sound like the victim
But it’s a shock to the nervous system
When I lie and think of you with him
Though it’s never that I want to
All I think these days is about you.

But what about that Sunday me made our first mistake
When we took all that was not ours to take?
This is why you leave me waiting for a fortune
Of something more than golden.

Sunday. Sunday. I can’t see a day past Sunday.
I say it in my heart as though time stands quietly
Waiting for you to find me
Past the hill we both climb
Breathing for the first time
What about Sunday?
What about Sunday?

© 2022 Marten Hoyle