My Sunday

Everytime I close my eyes,

Sunday afternoon comes to mind.

Sometimes when I close my eyes,

there is only white noises.

The Sunday in my head is always sunny;

rarely it rains.

When it rains on Sunday,

I am reminded of school uniform;

sweaty and sticky,

but it is still Sunday.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I can smell Sunday.

The smell of Sunday in my head—

consists of jasmine, pandan, and milk.

The Sunday in my head rarely rains.

When it rains, it smells like acid and soil.

The sunny side of my Sunday is not always bright—

and my wet Sunday is not always gloomy.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see myself tracing Sunday.

I run my fingers through the odds of—

possibilities and the ambience of the present.

You see, I cannot imagine anyone but myself—

in my Sunday.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see no one.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see silhoutte of myself.

Everytime I close my eyes,

I see myself leaving trails.

Everytime I close my eyes,

It was all in my head all along.

Blessed with the odds,

my Sunday goes by very slowly;

so slow sometimes I caught myself in turbulence.

From violent shower to the still lake,

I avoid meeting myself on the foreground.

If I ever crossed path in the middle,

I would be non-existent;

none of this would matter,

and there will never be my Sunday.