Light bleeds through red curtains painting the brown walls a muddy shade of maroon like dried blood on concrete
Sticky and hazy
The whooshing movement of fan blades fill in the would be silence
Tugging air with dull blades rapid and quick similar to the staccato of a heart beat
Wubbing its low hum sound the t.v static of a mundane morning
Sunday's have never held much meaning
Other than the once suffocating stuffiness of a dusty church bench
Listening to hell fire and brimstone in a place that smelled like death and hand sanitizer
Where children are paraded like prized cattle in front of relatives
Valued for their would be talents and their potential to redeem their parents mishaps
No this day was greeted with the smell of *** and the taste of syrup still lingering in the dry parts of the mouth
Legs tired from walking and stumbling at the bar
Eyes still wearing the specter of blue eye shadow
Lips the muted color of sin
No Sundays are special kind of sacred