Posted in art, desire, poetry, writing

Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning  She woke with a breath, a single stream of light shooting like an arrow into her squinting eye.   She stretched her arms wide, covering the expanse of the empty bed, hand lingering on the untouched pillow, longing tensing in her stomach like starvation.   She hated the need for him, that he consumed her first thoughts  on a Sunday morning, that he robbed her sanity.  She rolled over, gathering  an armful of comforter, hugging tight, cuddling something other than emptiness, holding on to something other than all the words she’d said to a brick wall.

I like the freedom of Sunday mornings, that I could sleep indefinitely if I wanted, that I can waste the morning making pancakes and then eat them in bed. I rarely make plans for Sundays, just drift through the day and see what happens, let who I see be a surprise.

–Leanne Rebecca

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Poetry and music.

3 thoughts on “Sunday Morning

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