On a Sunday afternoon,
when the cold air seeps in through the cracks in the wall,
I sit among the purples, reds and blues waiting for you to call.
You have left you say to a place where I cannot go.
It’s your revenge or idea of an independent show.
So, I wait alone and left inside with nothing more
to read except the T.V. Guide.
I wait thinking that I can survive.
My strength for the moment needs to reside,
in the sunset and your sure return. And
just as I’m about to leave with a note of farewell,
your key in the lock assures me and my doubt does dispel.
The smiles are there and my breathing resumes.
“The War Is Over” You state, in a triumphant voice.
And I respond, with the tears of rejoice,
on a Sunday afternoon.