Sunday nights
On Sunday nights I wonder if you're out there. It would be nice to text and find you in slippers, watching Netflix, petting a cat or a dog, washing dishes before settling into a book, able to write back. Of course I've rarely loved anyone who did that stuff in moderation. There's never time or space, or worse, there's too much of both. There's anxiety and hiding, or deadlines and obligations, or friends and promises, or a rare night when you can really cut loose and be that person you used to be, and deep down you don't want to be interrupted. I know because I'm that way too. All those ways. So even the new loves... or potentials thereof... I don't expect that you will be in any place to hear from a girl. So I make my messages into flowery postmarked overseas letters, even though they get to you instantly. Carefully composed, neatly contained well wishes. Goodnight and good morning. May your days be smooth and your nights restful. Goodnight goodnight goodnight.