I’m afraid Sunday’s expectation
is harder to swallow than I thought.
that the grey, evening air does not sit
in my lungs so easily.

the promise of your presence hangs
on the delicate thread of your word
that has been known to give way many
times before.

stop running me through the sevens
to meet the same conclusion again,
do not try to lift these spirits
just to let them fall through your hands.

just let me move on from your broken word,
verify my claims and rid from this hurt.