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Sunday


Sunday dawns in a haze and you

stare at the red blotch

on my nose, the blood

dripping down your hand

Can you hear me?


My screams

to get your attention

to let go of this childish imagination

of home


Home is wrinkles on her hand

the beads polished and cold,

teasing my fingertips like embers

gasping to burn

Home is mirrored in his glasses

that leave a mark on the bridge of his nose,

the elegant crook that I

kiss before I go

Towards the stars that will never align

Where am I going? Why am I floating

Like a headless fly, the blood

dripping down your hand


the last touch of your fingertips that Sunday

Send me into dreams

where the sun covered the clouds

I fly into the tempest pressing down

wondering, if I’d drown


Editor: Chris F., Joyce S., Leandra S., Charlotte C.

Photo Credits: Joana Abreu




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