Sunday

is tangled limbs
squeezing in between
what little space we could
recreate; socks and blankets
sharing residence on the floor;
pillows rolled into forts; building
a hole within four cold walls
as thunders roll and the day
folds; your shape curls into a
question mark none of my best
guesses could ever answer;
arms unraveling into figures
that entwine mine like puzzle
pieces; my palm nestled between
the triangles of your shoulder blades;
faces two inches away from each
other’s sleeping breath; i detail
the shape of your eyelids, the lines
on your face; the hours wrestling
away from our fingers like the slowly
passing breeze.

i often wonder how many
sunsets it would take for the
last of this to finally

break me.

Jocelyn Suarez is only sometimes a poet. Actually a nurse, she gathers inspiration from her experience at work, delving into the psychosocial intricacies of human relationships and expounding on issues such as death and human suffering. She has been included in a couple of SingPoWriMo anthologies and has participated in various spoken word events. She hopes to be able to write more poetry beyond the month of April and maybe even adopt a cat.

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