Flowers on Sunday on Monday

I still think of you on Sunday mornings and even though that was never our story, it is still the truest one that I have ever told – if only so I can sleep at night.

The light expands like lungs and air, pressing me into your ghost, before you disappear.  I skim our surface.  My body needs time to trust the feeling: wanted.  And even more time to admit: want.

You took back your tender mouthfuls of I-love-you and morsels of tongue-tied lips, but I stayed.  Stranded here, with only everything I imagined. Telling myself stories, conjuring my little song.

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