On Any Given Sunday

The dull night drive through downtown streets thrusted sidewinding memories of melancholic moments; old lovers giggling by candlelight, conversations in hot showers, tender was their touch, lips shaped like breaking and rearranging hearts, distant stares that spoke volumes with their vacancy, and I lived as a man engaged with fickle fiancées, a murderer in the moment of a mundane marriage, a singing sycophant who waits at the dark end of the street.

On the opposite lane of the road I saw silhouettes of women driving somewhere, coming from nowhere, in the middle of peace and despair.

 

My Sundays are my Fridays.

 

I have three days off to look forward to.

 

 

Maybe I’ll take a drive there.

∞