sunday mornings are the illumination of romanticism. They were meant for lovers who are serenaded by lovebirds, the symphony approaching adagio as it washes away last night’s mistakes with each chord.
(-sunday mornings, however, were not made for lonely hearts that cry in chromatic and slowly but surely crescendo in pain)
sunday mornings are sometimes greeted by rain, with windows wide open waving the loneliness in. The rain mocks in every articulated drop, each accent emphasizing the desolation of a room of one. Because waking up to empty bed sheets on mornings like these is always the worst part.
(-the diminuendo of the morning light hints at the crushing coda yet to come)
sunday mornings were never meant for longing, for gripped pillows and sickening seclusion. But the inevitable cadence rumbles as the melody plays the last note, and no one asks for an encore.
(-sunday mournings were never meant for music anyway)
