Sunday Eve

Saturday night songs and stories.

Yours are not the lips
I wish to kiss,
Can’t you see?

I am more than “fun.”
I am not easy,
Nor a tease.

My worth is more than
That ten dollar drink
And this bar combined.

And “no” means no.
“No” also means “go
home to your girlfriend.”

Because yours are not the lips
I love and long to hear
Whispering this lust into my ear.


“Let me tell you a story of two people and a house,” she almost sings as she half- skips/ half- runs away from the one she does not wish to kiss. “Here it is,” she points up the driveway. “A boy lived in that room there, before she did. Before they knew one another, they lived in the same room at different times. Then they fell in love and lived in the same room at the same time. They are dead now, though, so you shouldn’t go there, for it is haunted.” She hopes this makes sense to him, but skip- runs down the hill before she hears his response.


“Hello, Ghost,” she whispers to the air.
“I am drunk; I hope that doesn’t upset you.”


“Ghost, you are so cold.
You have left my bed frigid
without the warmth of your bones.
And sometimes I feel no more
than a silhouette. A lifeless face
that you’ll soon forget.
And sometimes I know you feel
like a hollow man. And I’m not
asking that you let me fill you up,
lift your lungs, warm your bones.
Although if you inhaled me just
once more I would take you
higher than you’ve ever known.

But, no. I do not want that,
not if that’s what leaves you
empty, depleted, depressed
when I’ve gone.
be strong and
peaceful and
mindful and
know that I’m trying too.


“I miss you, Ghost;
I love you still.
Perhaps one day you will love me
once more, and I will be there waiting
whether it be one year or two or four.
You’ll turn around and find an open hand
to fit to yours and feet ready to
match the pat, pat, pat
of your step.”


“Goodnight, Ghost.”


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