These Winter Sundays

Deviant art: necromalkin

Sundays too I get up early

I put on clothes in the tender warmth of my room, then with the unweathered hands that bear a softness incongruous with my age turn a dial to set a flame

I mull about with a sloth-like indifference, nay a flame under my arse, the agenda-less clock passes time by day in and day out. I can’t help but wonder how soon I will be able to start my countdown.

Routine feels routine. Life is just one long day until it’s lights out for eternity, and the great slumber begins.