sunday nights are my own.
old music in the corners of my mind
pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems
two hundred and seventy-two
little golden lights, 4 walls
that mirror my soul.
the embrace of the quiet
the freedom in the stillness.
last breath before monday, its grip
so tight, so strangling. for now
i let go, i lean into the liberation
of being alone on a quiet sunday night.
alone, but never lonely
cliché, but remnant in my heart.
At the hurl of a storm, the tree collapses.
Stagnant from then on, broken. Such an easy thing to be.
In the unpredicted wind, it sways
back and forth on its trunk, tendons straining
in the months of darkness and cold, i never stopped writing.
i just kept it all to myself. every night, my own religion
pages of pen poised on paper, pouring my heart out
i don't want to love someone
because i'm supposed to
you told me, one night in mid-july.
warm air and sun fading in the sky,
i want to fall in love with someone
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