Sundays are for relaxing. Except when they’re not, and they’re actually for working.
Sundays are for peeling your sunburn.
Sundays are for studying.
Sundays are for running down the street with a can of corn in one hand and a Thomas Kinkade calendar in the other.
Sundays mean waiting.
Sunday is for burying an idea so deep inside your heart, like a bad seed you had to swallow, and couldn’t bear to choke, that when it finally planted itself where it belonged it grew and grew and grew into a massive tree of life that stemmed from your throat–and quit.
Sundays are for sadness.
Sundays are for princesses. They are for you. They are for me.
They hold onto the hope of what could be–between you, and I. The belief of knowing someone when you actually don’t. The hurt and the understanding–of what is at stake. What could be and if it was what it would mean–really. We both understand what it could be, the pushing, and the pulling. The “something’s gotta give” mentality with my legs crossed and your childish grin.
We decide to let it go.
Until next Sunday.