I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I use to do

on many Sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,

and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.


I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.


Your sweet head would bow,
like child somehow,
down to me

and your hair and your eyes were wild.

We would embrace on the floor

You see my back's still sore.
You knew how easely I bruised,
It's a soreness I would never lose.


I think of you
on Sunday afternoons...