Breakfast, Pierre Bonnard (1917) |
it is a fine Sunday morning
like all the rest
usually breakfast is served in a little chipped bowl
i will smile at your photograph trapped into the bronze frame
some times
you will smile back
or
some other times
you will not even notice i am sitting here
but i will not say a thing because i know
you like it this way
you like it this way
and as always
it is understandable
only today
a Sunday morning like all the rest
suddenly i feel tears escaping from my eyes
not knowing from where they came
or where they go
all blur and me standing here
struggling to discover
the meaning of this sea behind my eyelids
maybe it is just an allergic reaction
an eye infection or dust or the sun...
or maybe it was my reflection in the mirror when i woke up
i looked at it hopping to find you on the other side
but there was nothing
only a forgotten shirt thrown on a chair
and last night's kisses
crippled
on the floor....
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