Sunday prevails. fails.

In an annual aching, traditional sadness. This recognition of those who fly towards the clouds. I am placed within my hometown. Seeking time. Finding stability. Only to come back to a shaky rushed environment. The sun rises too early and I break my slumber mold to wash away the midnight oils. Scrub the yesterdays if you will. Classic attire, to prove personality to myself, no need for others to challenge. Stall my voice for the asphalt paved paths. And crack the morning dryness of my throat as I leave the car. A restaurant smells of overcooked grease and men who lack the commonality of deodorant usage. The ones outside whisper through the breathes of their cigarettes. Ignorant of previous traumatic events. Our colony is placed in the corner to muffle the unnecessary loud conversation. Orders misplaced. Accents misunderstood. Investments spilled upon jeans and jackets, discouraged thoughts with no right to judge. My coffee burns my tongue, so I push it aside. Orange juice stings the wound until I'm left with a mouth too heartbroken to speak. Food is mediocre, but the cash is being spent so I sweep it within. Sniffle and collect myself out the door. The direction is forgotten, U turn and discovered. Wander through the concrete memorials placed in the grass. Imagining the depths of shame. blame. confusion. delusion. whatever followed each last breath. Sad lyrics fall into my head so I sing pass the fallen. We stare. remember. reflect. and place sunglasses upon our eyes doubting the clouded sky. No arms can fully communicate goodbyes. But they try. And so do I.