Killing Time
And it’s Sunday all over again,
In my word and in your beauty.
Your silence, so fragile,
Penetrable and deep.
It’s like being trapped
In a museum.
Monday, I feel my shoulders
Heavy as every instant
You become more bashful.
Tuesday turns to Thursday,
While I watch your
Obsessive, irritated brow.
I don’t want you to leave,
Yet you must…
I’d lock you up till Friday.
I’d write to you,
However it would not be me who rides
The pen… but
My spirit, pouting from disillusion.
Still, Saturday morning
You’ll surely be gone
And it will turn
To Sunday all over again…
For I still bear
The weight of your death.
Another week and a killer
I still remain.
© 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila
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