Sundays are the Worst

Sundays are the Worst

I know I’ve been through something
but I just don’t quite know what;
and the dust hasn’t yet settled
nor has the blood dried on the cut. 

What I do know, I know only too well:
that of the bad, Sundays are the worst;
and although I loved you, not the longest,
in my heart, you will always be the first. 

After we survey the damage to our souls,
we then make do with leftover dreams;
and we wonder why we ever loved so much,
and why we ever listened to such schemes. 

I always think I can make it through
from Monday to Saturday, nearly whole;
but it’s these Sundays that throw me,
and I most want you, body and soul. 

And I know Sundays are always the worst,
yet I live for them perhaps the most;
for it’s on this day more than the others
that I am most often visited by your ghost. 

Author: John RC Potter

Photo: Alekon pictures on Unsplash