Sunday

Every time I close my eyes,

Sunday afternoon comes to mind.

Sometimes when I close my eyes,

there is only white noises.

The Sunday in my head is always sunny;

rarely it rains.

When it rains on Sunday,

I am reminded of school uniform;

sweaty and sticky,

but it is still Sunday.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I can smell Sunday.

The smell of Sunday in my head—

consists of jasmine, pandan, and milk.

The Sunday in my head rarely rains.

When it rains, it smells like **** and soil.

The sunny side of my Sunday is not always bright—

and my wet Sunday is not always gloomy.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see myself tracing Sunday.

I run my fingers through the odds of—

possibilities and the ambience of the present.

You see, I cannot imagine anyone but myself—

in my Sunday.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see no one.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see silhouette of myself.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see myself leaving trails.

Everytime I close my eyes,

It was all in my head all along.

Blessed with the odds,

my Sunday goes by very slowly;

so slow sometimes I caught myself in turbulence.

From violent shower to the still lake,

I avoid meeting myself on the foreground.

If I ever crossed path in the middle,

I would be non-existent;

none of this would matter,

and there will never be my Sunday.

- Sarah Radzi (In Between Four Walls)