i'm sunday's child.

she was fifteen when she started to understand hope.

i encounter him three times a year if i’m lucky. luck isn’t what i desire. at least, not with him.

this love isn’t familial or romantic. it is unknowable. (for now.) you cannot grasp this. maybe that’s the problem, maybe it’s the solution.

i am not fearful of his duality, rather fear paralyzes me from returning his embrace.

thunder cracks, separating the body and the spirit. unreachable islands of solitude brace themselves against the hurtling storms. lightning strikes; waves form into hurricanes. a creation of his, i long to fathom.

existing in a room with him for an undeterminable amount of time would reconstruct me: in minuscule ways, too delicate for observation and dissection. yet i’ll be aware of it happening.

lightning struck down my passiveness; tidal waves anchor themselves to the gaps in this cycle.

the devil’s… no, my copy singles me out forevermore. the pawns were chosen centuries ago. golden, shimmering, lucky to be seen.

the desire to float is inconsequential this time, as it always is. i want to believe drowing is a choice this time. i want to believe previous attempts were simply a trial run. i will get it right this time.

what are you willing to do to end the cycle? what is “the end”?