𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

sunday blues

dear sunday blues,

  i write about cruising in baby blue corvettes with the top down and the wind tangling my hair on a spring morning in 1955,

  and licking red stained popsicle sticks to catch every bite with cold tongues and sticky fingers and laughing smiles,

   jukeboxes and ribbons and cherries and letters with scrawling, cursive handwriting, a love so sweet it hurts my tender heart,

  and having vanilla ice cream cones for dessert with my crush, who is drawing circles on the palm of my hands (it's a friday night date, after all, and i want that first, sloppy kiss).

  sunday blues,

  my dreams are of indie hipsters playing guitars and softly singing, sweet raspberry jams for a summer picnic, dresses twirling on a rolling hill filled with white daffodils and falling sunflowers,

   and polaroids that stack my small walls with greenery on my night stand and music spinning dizzyingly on the record player, long sleeve cotton shirts smelling of him to wear while sleeping in crisp sheets,

  finishing with string lights and corduroy pants with a band playing a song so wonderfully, to dance is to be in heaven, all while mixing breaths and kissing lips and holding one another closely.

  but, sunday blues,

  my poetry is of the tears i cry after the day is rained out, too, when there is no more love to fill my heart and no one to hold me and tell me it will all be okay, as the thunder rages on, and on, and my anger rages on, and on,

  and i pour my soul onto pages of cream and talk about the sweet magic of honey combs and the decaying rot of expired hearts and the maggots that they bring, painfully writing of twisted, withered skins and poisoned apples,

and finally, i end my sorrows with words of despair and loneliness that come to mind when i am driving, all alone, home, when it is late at night and i am leaving the one i love most.

  sunday blues,

  my words speak of black hair and brown eyes and tan skin that remind me of dewy grass, blue skies, and peaches on faded, cool days, tapping drums and lazy voices of spanish accents filling my teenage journals

i write of exploration and future travels to see oceans so blue the water is clear, and mountains so high snow rests at their peaks, and nature so green that flowers sway; shivering winds and soft sunshine and smoky fog and showering rains.

  oh, sunday blues,

  mysterious romances and tearful goodbyes and redemptions of love, futures and pasts and memories that last, reminiscing youth and embracing age, wishes of wands and princess stories, cigarette smoke and motorcycle danger, struggles and eases with him and me.

  happiness, love, and tomorrow will come, and when it does, i will write, embrace, and remember. all will be well, all will be right, all will be good. smiles, hearts, and memories, times of sorrow and times of sweetness, moments of despair and moments of elevation, the good, bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the sunsets and moon rising and stars shining - my heart is his.

this is for you, sunday blues.
- for until we get there.

yours,
c