SUNDAYS
Every Sunday, I bath self with my memories about you.
On how the sun became so extremely radiant
when I'm still with you.
On how I've finally known the word 'safety'
the moment you held me around your arms
as If I'm precious gift during holidays.
I am an atomic bomb by the way.
On how I was so clairvoyant about our future
that I even proclaimed, as if I'm a prophet,
that we will going to make it 'till the earth
gets tired revolving on its orbit.
We talked about premonitions, about extrasensory,
about the constellations, about the vibrations
of our body every time we achieve orgasm,
about our phantasm, about anything
that can tickle our imagination.
Yet, I became so unimaginative about
how you are capable of sundering.
That you can leave me dreaming while I'm wide awake.
Everything was a mistake but let me tell you
that every moment that I have love you was real
and I did not regret it.
Now let me wash my hair, kiss my body with the soap,
rinse off the bubbles feasting over my naked body
with the help of the very fine water that feels like holy
to enjoy the rest of my Sunday without even thinking of you.
And let me laugh when the night comes with the glass
of red wine in my right hand while I'm at the balcony
for I know that each day of the week except for Sunday,
you will be thinking nothing but me.
Sunday is mine to keep.
The rest of the days is yours to lose.
