There Are Only Sundays If

The topic now being how. Time trembling like a bowling ball down that gutter toward your heart. I can pretend I'm her and use the third person. Arguing with myself puzzle piece by puzzle piece. Until every image is shaped to fit the destruction. Knowing too well how the second's been exhausted.

If I'm the first person and she is the third. There's someone between us. Some gasping transition between my admonishment and my revelation.

Were I better acquainted with praise I'd recognize it sooner.

Reveal to him the key to making it all easy is just admitting it never mattered.

Saying out loud that I was nothing. That I still am. To him. Swallowing every lie as darkness consumed the sunset.

Proving once and for all that change is temptation on its knees. Truth at its weakest.

Go on. Make me right again.

Pull the wings off of the fly and ask it what its name is.

Tell me the truth one lie at a time.

There are only Sundays if we have time enough. There is only loss when those ladders touch the roof.