SUNDAYS, UNANCHORED

 

Sundays, Unanchored

Sundays unravel me, thread by thread,

exposing the desperate, fragile edges

of a heart too open, too raw,

needing stitches to bind its quiet wounds.

I find myself wishing away

the slow crawl of morning light,

the heavy drift of afternoon shadows,

the endless stretch of evening’s hush—

each hour a hollow echo,

marking the space you once filled.  

The week’s relentless churn—

engagements woven into necessity,

obligatory errands threading our days—

keeps us tethered to motion,

rushing side by side,

mutually caught in life’s frantic pull.

Yet even in that blur,

you linger, unshakable,

a pulse beneath my skin.

The need for you, the love I hold,

burns sharpest, most undeniable,

on Sundays,

when the world falls still

and I’m left to face

the vastness of your absence.  

It’s the cruel, circumstantial rift

that widens on days like this:

silence floods the air

where your voice once lived,

soft and steady in my ear.

I feel the absence of you terribly—

a weight that presses,

a void that pulls.

Off balance, off kilter,

I stumble through the hours,

a compass without its north,

unable to steady myself

without the gravity of you

to anchor me to the earth.  

Sundays lay me bare,

stripping away the noise

to reveal a soul unmoored,

teetering on the edge of longing.

I picture you out there,

moving through your own tangle of days,

pausing, perhaps, as I do,

to feel the thread of this distance tighten.

Do you sense it too—

the faltering rhythm of a Sunday dusk,

the ache of reaching for a hand

that isn’t there?

Do you carry the same quiet fracture,

a life half-lived in the space between us?  

And yet, within this hollow,

something stirs—

a fierce, fragile clarity,

a love that thrives even in absence,

sharp as a wound, tender as a vow.

I hold you in the marrow of these hours,

waiting for the day

your voice will mend the silence,

your presence stitch me whole again.

Until then, Sundays keep me captive,

their stillness a mirror

reflecting one unyielding truth:

I am only steady, only complete,