Sunday
the last touch of your fingertips that Sunday
Send me into dreams
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