Sundays felt like,
That lonely girl sleeping at her room,
With an old playlist with odd weather,
Like she's left to tell of the pieces she lost,
In search of motionless affection,
With the maybes full of partly assurance,
Twisting her memories to screen her phone,
Fewest letter maker to re-read her love language,
Weeping with less hope to find herself again,
Sunday felt like a girl with no diary.


Sundays felt like,
That cowboy's boots, lost in the field of hays,
Swaying it's laces to the noons winds,
Bored with the dashing hopes to be found,
Singing to country songs from afar,
Tryin' to whistle through the rhyme to be heard,
As the sun is kissing the westcoast archives,
Far from entertaining, there's a monday coming,
Sunday felt like the last kiss on lovers lips.


Sundays felt like,
That preserved window thought in a bus,
Sweet then short, with a smile ending pace,
Like a first memory captured by new born lovers,
One in a million times that's draped in a clock tower,
With the deep conversation with the silence aura,
Sunday felt like the day you said you won't let go.