Razor-bump, loved-too-tight Saturdays,
bleeding into gospel-like, worn-in Sundays,
with our heads tucked under blankets
and blankets tucked neatly under beds.

This is a reoccurring memory
preserved from ages ago,
when sunshine still tore itself through your room,
violating every corner and crevice until there was nothing left to fill.

And maybe there is a certain recklessness to the way we carry our bodies,
but we can only interpret the sun hitting our faces as a glimpse of the divine,
something you and I can only find in your room at noon,
when we can’t agree on what we want for lunch.

Here is life standing still.
Here are several moments in which time takes a break.
Here we are,
on the brink of ugly and underserving,
yet here all the same.

Here is Sunday,
ripe with forgiveness,
pregnant with serenity,
awaiting us with open arms.

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