Written by Laura Lees
Sunday is a liminal space,
A waiting for the dawn of Monday, the new week,
It is the fluttering in the chest,
The hazy day blurs the lines between the real and fake,
Seeing forget-me-not’s bloom in the cracks of the pavement.
Sunday is holding a match but not striking it yet,
It is the fluorescent lights of the motel,
The airport at two-thirty in the morning,
the station five minutes after the last train has left.
Sunday is waiting for what might never come,
Like watching the phone for a call,
Plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room,
The deafening silence of a church after the congregation has left,
The hot summer days of childhood that slip away as we grow.
Sunday is daisy chains and heart palpitations,
Panic attack and to-do list,
Weekly calendars flipped a day into the future,
Predicting what is to come.
Sunday is the quiet of dawn,
The faint sounds of sirens three miles away in the city,
The flickering of streetlights,
Anticipation and anti-climax,
Sunday is the scariest day,
The firework shooting up into the sky but not yet exploding,
The finger on the trigger,
The space between jumping and falling,
The half-second of weightless floating before you plummet.
Sunday is the day to breathe,
Drag yourself from your bed to the window,
Remember to make your peace with the week that has gone,
And prepare for what is to come.
Laura is a final year BA English student and resident of South Leicester. She enjoys poetry, local news and reading.