Sundays

this is a really old poem about that good old ex...

Each Sunday
you come to see me.
I shower, I dress,
I smile,
and the doorbell rings.
It is the sound of you,
your nervous tapping
on my doorstep.
I prepare myself
for your eyes,
faded
like you.
I'm never ready
for your hands,
course from work,
tense from me.
Coffee sits,
and cigarettes burn.

Tell me everything
you could never
tell anyone,
I will never
tell anyone.
You,
Lover,
I need more of.
Sundays are but once a week,
fifty-two for each year that passes
but I love like this everyday.
Everyday
I miss
your nervous tapping
on the doorstep.

We sit,
stirring,
and staring,
we get deeper
every time.
you won't have to be alone
between Sundays.
You don't have to say good-bye
every time.
Because between Sundays,
I am falling apart.