Sunday Friend

“But to make yourself feel nothing, so as not to feel anything — what a waste” -André Aciman

My Sunday Friend, tell me

Tell me, how you started your day.

What did you cook for lunch?

How was work? And that bitch at reception that you can’t stand the sight of.

Tell me again, about the time you secretly dropped out of school,

and the bruises you got from your father after.

Tell me what you did/didn’t tell your mother about us, it doesn’t matter.

What everybody knows about you, I know better.

My Sunday Friend, can’t you see?

The space I carved into myself,

just to make room for every whisper that you said to me.

Friend, fill me to the brim with your stories.

Press your lips to my shoulder,

and trace around me with your fingertips.

Tell me how you felt in our first date, friend.

Or when you bought me those shoes I wanted for my birthday.

Tell me anything, friend

Fill the silence with everything, with your sharpened voice.

Just say what you want, and kiss me til’ I don’t feel lost

And maybe, just then

All our empty spaces will be patched back together, before Monday morning comes.

I’ll be coming here next week, and the week after.

To hold on to this make-believe, for just a little while longer.

Til’ then, I’ll see you again, my Sunday Friend