sunday island

“You make it look so easy,” she said. Day time had a way of grating on my nerves in rivers that ran through my toes. The only thing I truly loved in those years was waking up to watch the way her rib cage fell at the end of every breath. I’d lie there until the sun changed the room several times, going to all sorts of ends of earths no one else ever imagined. Wars were fought and lost on that rib cage.

Sundays often felt like some sort of demarcation point, from there to here, then to now. A no mans land. No man is an island, except for sundays. On sundays her and I are an island.