Sundays always smelled sharper.
Tasted harsh.
Even the sunlight cut deeper.
It sounded like a
dark Wagner symphony.
I’ve felt it since I was five—
lonely in the quiet.
Maybe it was school tomorrow.
God, maybe it was school tomorrow.
Or maybe it’s the truth:
Life keeps rolling
while people vanish.
Yesterday, his mother handed out
vials of ashes.
He drank one too many,
another fire snuffed out.
The sidewalks glare bright.
Sunshine in January—
a liar,
faking warmth,
mocking the chill in my chest.
Puffy white clouds
sharpen the loneliness
like a fillet knife.
I think of her—
my daughter, far away,
the laughter I can’t hear,
the arms I can’t hold.
I sip coffee, bitter
as this empty room.
Lonely as this
quiet Sunday morning.