i feel dormant, static.

sundays are reserved for anticipation and potential energy. they’re days of suspense and text messages sent with no reply.

a flower that hasn’t bloomed, a fetus in utero, or a criminal on death row, awaiting her execution. sunday is a a spectrum. possibly infertile.

a day of hope, wanting, calling, but still loathing, apprehension.

i can only speak for myself, and my imagined version of you.