Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

You, your stormy blue eyes.

I stand in the crowd, the darkness matted to my face like a mask, trying to peer through.

You’re pain and beauty, scars and brilliance, and the coming rain.

You had such self control, poised and ready to fly away. But you fell apart for hazel eyes that shone in the light of the radio, and drinks at the table by the window.

Somewhere along the way you got lost. You drowned yourself in sunny disposition and the smell of aftershave, and eventually, you realized that after all this time, you don’t know how to swim.

Imagine that. You, with the very ocean in your veins and salt within your skin, don’t know how to stay afloat.

It makes sense why you stayed in the shallows for so many years,

hiding.

But I see you now. I remember who you used to be:

A cloudy day in the key of F. Your hair piled high on top of your head like a crown, your words were few and insightful, though not always important. Your laugh is either thunder or gentle showers, your mind a haven or a personal hell, and

that is your life-raft.

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