SUNDAY by SARA CHUIRAZZI

All of my friends from California call on the same day
and everyone I know has a reason to go back to Boston.

A week ago
I was next to you;

there is no luxury in this
retrospect.

Today, I take two trains an hour to Brooklyn
to hear people read in soft voices
under a disco ball

refracting light
tall ceilings
windows

into water.

Someone says that any place
you can idealize,
you can also resent;
every place you leave
will go on without you.

I wonder about people,
decide it must be true for us,
too.

Tell me again how memory is divided,
how there is always a half
that’s more than half,
how someone always carries more

and for longer.

 


Sara Chuirazzi is a writer & reader living in New York. She is a lover of diner coffee and a friend to all dogs. You can find her on Twitter @sarazzismiles.

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