Dear Sunday

Dear Sunday,

Where, oh where do you go? Why do you always leave me hanging? Stuck like a raggedy t-shirt, dangling by a single clothespin on the line. A lonely child abandoned on the side of the road.

You are as ephemeral as that crisp shadow cast by the fading sunlight.

Fleeting.

Sunday, you are so fleeting.

When you first arrive, you act as if we have so many possibilities, you and I. A truly optimistic notion. Endless potential.

Sunday, just as I chase shadows, I chase you. I chase you with an insatiability I can’t describe. I want desperately all that you have to offer. But I never catch you. You slip through my fingers every time. The result is always the same. You walk away, without giving me even an inkling of what you promised upon your arrival. You leave me forlorn, staring into the abyss that is your reservoir of constantly unfulfilled promises.

The only concrete thing you have to offer me is that you will come again. Seven more days, and we can try again. We can try to make this work. Again.

As I watch you turn your back to me and leave, I can only say: “See you next time, Sunday.”