Sunday

Sunday it's the day she visits me.
I smile.
I try to think not of the teardropp that will roll down my cheek,
Exactly 106 minutes later,

As she leaves.

If I could talk,
(Here's the part where I dream of having a deep, velvety voice)
I would tell her a thousand times
'Please, don't go...',

But, I can’t.

Instead I watch the teardropp soak the cardboard,
As she closes the door,
106 minutes later.
Alone.

With my Rorschach test.

by Sezano KarBoni

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