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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