The afternoon sun crawled
through the curtains -
struggling to drip
through any crevasse.
It was either Friday or Wednesday -
I couldn't've told you which.
I didn't pay much attention to that
(anything at all), lately.
I hoped it was a Friday.
You loved Wednesdays.
So I loved Wednesdays.
You'd go down to the
farmer's market,
buy me an orange.
Oranges were your favorite.
We'd sit at a picnic table
and talk for
hours.
I wouldn't care
if I got sunburnt,
from being outside
for so long.
It was worth it.
You were worth it.
I kind of miss
the feeling of
a sunburn.
Today's a Wednesday.
And I don't have an orange.
And I'm not sitting at a
picnic table.
I'm in this fucking room.
In here,
where even
the brightest sunlight
fights the curtains
to enter.
YOU ARE READING
Contrast
PoetryA collection of tragedies of sorts, of demons or angels (whatever you'd fancy to call them) that lurk and/or gleam in my mind. Written when the moon's dreary and the sun's near awakening. Obnoxiously metaphoric, subtly inspirational. © Jake Sullivan...
