Sunday, every day Sunday.

The odour

Of your departure

Lingers in the air

Your broken promises

Float in front

Of my eyes-

I reach out

And curl my fist

Around a few of them

And desperately shove it

Inside my mouth

But they dissolve

To nothingness

On my tongue

And I’m left

With the taste

Of your sweet lies.

*

Strength comes knocking

Once in a while

But the heartbreak

That always seems to

Linger just behind

The door,

Pushes it away-

I can hear the thud

As my strength

Hits the front porch

Muttering curses

Under its breath

For ever having tried.

*

I spend my days

Drinking loneliness

Like whiskey,

Singing haunted songs

To the sky,

Eating poetry for lunch-

For me, now,

Sunday mornings

Will always smell

Like your absence.

---

-The Girl Lost In The Bookstore

This poem was selected and published by The Anonymous Writer on their website. You can read it by clicking here.

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