Sunday is my best friend
and loneliness doesn’t visit us anymore.
The sun barely shines on my body,
even though I wait for it
perched on the window sill.
But I don’t mind because I know
he is my friend and I am but a cliche.

My Sunday and I love each other.
I feel comfortable within her arms
and we look up at the sun who
is now flirting with us and
together we dream of summers,
smiles, flowers, and wild nights
on the beach where time waits
for us to be really really done.

My Sunday combs my hair and whispers
about revolutions, which calms my soul,
so she laughs and together we talk about
Monday and how we have to try and
love him better because he is a friend anyways.
The sun is going away, he’s not invited to dinner,
but he’ll be back for breakfast.

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