That Sunday Evening …

That faithful Sunday evening, she came around

Lights were off, she had come to see the seamstress next door

I wondered, if she really came because of her.

[In her right hand was a pack of tomtom …]


“Come up” I said, “my room is up stairs”

She smiled and followed me placidly

She stumbled on the fourth to the last step

“#$&@!, bruised ankle” she said


My right hand on her waist, her left over my shoulder

She limped, as I helped her climb the last three steps

And with her left breast touching my right chest

I felt every heartbeat, I could even count


On the wretched bed, she sat, as I lit the candle

“the ankle seems ok and the tomtom is yours” she said

All she could add after that, was “I really have to go”

I could only blame the impervious darkness dumsor did bring …


What else is there to blame?!


6 thoughts on “That Sunday Evening …

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