she was a Sunday morning girl. with speckled blue eyes and enough sertraline in her lungs to fuel a six-foot man. a coffee in her left and a fraction of her father’s addiction issues in her right. she smelt like a van gogh painting, while her hair sat softly in a gold-plated claw clip. dark toned skin highlighted off the mounds of jewellery that pierced her ears. she smiles - lightly.
she was a Sunday morning girl. bearing witness to little things - a properly brewed espresso, a fresh manicure, scent of an old book, her grandmothers handwriting, freshly washed yoga pants. her life moaned to be simplistic, a gentle touch for others - a light in broken song.
she was a Sunday morning girl. a wild-sided child, raised by opposing values and personas. given two paths to walk from a Friday to a Sunday, and the role of mentor on a Monday. advocate of mushroom music, backseat kisses, polaroid film, and heart-shapped sunnies. a type of women too secure in herself, unaccepted of men - boundaried over DUI’s and sparing love.
she was a Sunday morning girl. sun-kissed summers, top-off jeep drives, quarter-lime marg’s, hidden thrift gems and smoked salmon bagels. Picturesque but shy - though loudened sense of self since her grade ten bully. passionate over drive-in theatre popcorn, quiet sunset lake swims, pottery painting, a good face-wash. a bob marley classic, bird-song tunes - chattered in snoop dog rap and faint argumentative screams.
she was a Sunday morning girl. tatted times seven, hidden to protect her future perceptions. a body once scratched - wrist to wrist, thigh to hip, ankle to arch. few years spent without the use of a smiley-face emoji or a sober-facade. sixteen walked alone - a ninth year math class failed, with another half-lunch eaten in a bathroom stall.
she was a Sunday morning girl. ever, only lasting a month before it caught her again. a sunrise creeping over the backwood trees, slight whisper of hair on the back of her neck, another dogeared page, a round-brush burn, empty bedsheets and lost bobby-pins. a few moments spent in mornings past - deciding what a dream meant and how much hair was to be chopped.
she was a Sunday morning girl. in ache of what was more - seemingly fulfilled by what was. a match-stick lit cigarette, one-night stand in a friend’s bedroom, another body to his person - she never did get the hint. colour-coded sticky notes and allotted amounts of purchased glue paired in coffee stained shirts and mismatched socks - a type of all things nonsense.
she was a reckless Friday night, quick sanded into a Sunday morning lover. soft-hearted and frivolous. an August symphony remixed bass. a lightly-steepened tea and too much sugar. a closed-eye star gazer - an inhale type of admiration. a lost cause on a found picture, a moss-covered skipping stone, a falling tawny autumn leaf, an overlooked driftwood lighthouse, a crisp breeze on a Sunday morning.
