Sundays are for writing Poetry

Because love, in weekdays,

I prefer not to not think of you

Because weekdays are long

And so will be my longing

My waiting

My forgetting

I say, let the Monday rush

Through my restless veins though

Mondays are loathsome,

So are Tuesdays, Wednesdays

And Thursdays but

In Fridays

My heart shall soften, the tears

Held for the week will be dissolve

The hands shall seek you, but it

Will not find

in Saturdays, love, I do not love you

I grow tired and sometimes I hate you

Because, the heart still burns all the same

Like a smoke that flutters in the room

Choking my lost heart

I shall grow distant

But this is all but procedural

Ceremonial matters of the heart

Because in Sundays, love, I crave for you

Craving for your voice, your hair, your lips

Your mouth, your fluids, and all the other

Things that is only known between us

But you are not with me

And I die a little

Enough for all the birds in the shore

To fly to my window to mourn

Enough for the stars to be ashamed

That’s why you don’t see them

In Sundays anymore

Enough for every tree you walk upon

To shrug a leaf to your head,

Enough for all the butterflies to

Be saddened and they shall carry

A weight of my soul to you

And by then

You shall know

That every Sunday

I have died a little loving you


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