Sunday
It’s Sunday And yours is the face Of abandonment.
Cold steel circles We are Adam and Eve Learning today Of punishment.
The Lights are flashing On your face And our last kiss Is a sacrament.
You must have known the whole time And the tears on my cheeks Are a silent cry Of puzzlement.
The lights recede You brightest of them all With a last look, a wink Of management.
We could have gone so far But you were never a runner It’s Sunday Without you, I slowly slip, Under,
A mountain Of my own depressions.
Patrick Adigweme is a part-time writer, part-time devourer of knowledge, and full-time travel enthusiast based out of Portland, Oregon.
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