home | | | | | |archive | | | | | |profile | | | | | |notes | | | | | |previous | | | | | |next

grey sunday

I read this hour. It tells a story. How the ceiling got so loud. I search the industrial park for a quiet place to get sick. Commit suicide on a loading dock. On a grey Sunday. I get sick with a Bible in my hands. Oh, please don't tell me this sky will shut. Please don't let the day close with me still outside. My hands are grey. I can't hold the landscape. For very long. I am doubled over and sick in the industrial park. On a Sunday loading dock. I miss hand-writing letters to the ghost that lived in your dress. I miss killing myself on a winding road beside the river. I miss collecting the torn fabric of breath my mouth left high in the trees on a grey Sunday.

previous | next