On Sundays

by Sara Hutchinson

I stay in bed til 2 then get up 
and open all the windows. 
Make coffee and walk around
the 5 x 10 space I call my living room. 
Turn my attention to the postcards
and photographs on the fridge. 
Stare hard at all that evidence. 
Whisper: See, there’s no reason to be lonely.
Smoke one cigarette and then another
on the steps out front. 
Begin to cry over my own good luck. 
I never told you this but the truth is 
I would follow you to the edges of any map. 
I never told you this
but that’s what scares me. 
And it’s not just that I love you. 
More often it’s a mixed melody
of the same idea, 
which sounds quite a lot like: thank you. 
Forgive me one last time. Come back. 
This time I mean it.

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