Sunday

Sunday is your day
because you would wear
your nicest pair of jeans
and cleanest T-shirt
to give your soul to God,
whereas I slept in and ate cereal
in the bright emptiness
of the living room, waiting
to see your golden head
pop through the gate
a smile that would reflect the sun
spread across your face.

I am glad Sunday
is your day.
I had Saturday,
when pancakes and bacon
were the order of the morning
topped in whipped cream
and fruit, and when I could
feed my hunger for both
food and happiness
in the shared brunches
I had to learn not to miss
when I moved away.

And Monday was goodbye.
No one likes Monday anyway.

But I'll leave you a minute
on Sunday -
a minute to smile
at the memory
of a golden head
bouncing through the gate
with the smile of a miniature sun.

If I Would You

If I ran for you
would you count
the beads of sweat
dropping, if you could,
in your open palm,
to remind you
of how much I ran
and how hard?

Would you harvest
its salt and pool that
with what I lost in tears?
Would you listen
to the surplus heartbeat
pushing its way
through a rib cage
strained in its breaths
to keep the dizziness
in, the air from exploding?

And if I stood for you
hours in a crowded airport
swimming through faces
to find yours,
would you pick me up
in a second to take
the soreness and
pour it all out?

I sometimes dream for you
knowing full well that
my tossing and turning
will never be caught gently
or soothed to forgetfulness,
yet still my body
refuses to give up
remnants of things
it used to give you.