We used to be Sundays.
It would feel like the world would go from high contrast to luminous, faded shades of blue - an eerie kind of calm washing over every street of this city and the wrinkled linens of our bed. I’d watch you from across - not minding me or the tv that’s been open since 8am - waiting on when you feel like having breakfast before I admit to being famished, myself.
There was always calm in our chaos, and a certain sense of clarity in the unclear; things that didn’t really make sense, until recently, when I had to admit on having lied to myself about how much I don’t miss you or how weakly I feel about you.
But I guess you were my Sunday and I was your Monday, just another head start to a busy week of meetings after meetings and traffic jams to get stuck in and vivid city noises that ring in your head until evening comes and there is no more. I was just another Monday you had to go through before you could enjoy your Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and until you could find, I guess, your very own Sunday.
You will always be my Sunday, I’ve realized. I will always and only see you through these same, hazed eyes that could only look past all the mistakes and all the heartaches and all the damn pain you’ve put me through and find, still, my heart cradled in your unwilling, uncompromising, reluctantly gentle, arms.
Maybe, you’ve realised that I’m your Sunday, too.
But Sunday’s almost over.
Or at least, I wish for it to be.