Sundays

Being a part of something religious and special is a very good thing that has happened to me. To be able to play the guitar every Sunday with you became one of my routines.

And now that we’ve reached the month of December, I admit, it’s hard.

To see you now on my right side plucking the guitar strings as if it was all you ever did in your entire life makes me sad. And when you look at my way, says something then hesitates, it’s baffling. Don’t you know that I have only four months left to hear those unspoken words of yours?

Maybe, you do.

But whenever I stare at and laugh with you, do you even–just for a moment–care about the thoughts that haunt me every time?

You don’t because you know nothing about these thoughts.

Now, I’m going to let you know that every Sunday, I have to make a memory. At least, just one. Just one to have something that can represent the ghost of you. Just one to keep me happy for a week. Just one to cheer me up once I’ve learned to taste the bitterness of your absence.

Now I know the feeling of being so close to someone who I know will leave me someday.


This was written last December. I was rereading my drafts and just thinking to myself, wow.

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