Of Sundays

When poems get older, they seem more and more child-like, 10 months and this poem seems like a complete 8 years old. Sharing this one is for the sad laughs : 

Another Sunday,
Practicing to let it go.
Winter passing by like
the estranged father from the sky.
I sit in the narrow balcony
Count the number of clothes
On the line,
Twelve, it is.
I go back to the foamy bucket,
Clean my clothes,
Some I slept in while
I was with you.
Making the bed, cleaning the table
Organizing books
Organizing helps you to
Keep your shit together.
I look towards my door
Where you’ve never been
I see you busy with the phone,
stealing glances at me
I take the coffee black and strong
I can’t sleep anymore
in dreams you hug me
and them leave all together.
I talk to neighbors; lies mostly
call the brother
telling I am fine,
telling the blood dried up
it doesn’t hurt much now.
Chew on the food on steel plate
gulp the white pills before.
Sit with a book
about Septimus Warren Smith.
Mark the lines,
like you scribbled on my back
well the Sunday is over,
no, not yet.
You’re still sleeping next to me,
I run my fingers along the curls,
hoping you to turn, I try to kiss
and then move away.
The long Sunday, not over yet.
I met you on Friday and you died
the next Sunday.
I am not dead
cause on Mondays
I hang around a lot saying
love is never enough.


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