Call Me Sunday

Call Me Sunday when you come undone.

You are the sweet taste of a lazy morning, a yearning for that service, communion of sorts…I squeeze you in words, wring you in thoughts, and pound you in feelings.

I am not the pestle but rather the mortar that creates room for pounding.

Happy is a state, you say.

eyeglasses near paper and ballpoint pen
Unsplash.com

Call Me Sunday when you come undone.

“You know…of all the people I have met in my life, you remind me of a spark, I smoke. Yes, one of my guilty pleasures but it’s you that I inhale, exhale and sometimes it is you that I light up and put out.”

“So, I am cancerous, is that it?”

“Oh, for a Writer you don’t get words!”

“Really?”

“Come here…Call Me Sunday, Love. I need forever even if it comes wrapped in a second, a month, a year, a week, a breath…I do not care for much, just this…”

Call Me Sunday when you come undone, for every word, every thought comes to me and when I lay my head down, it’s my beating heart that reminds me of how far I let forever go.

 


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