Sunday Morning

half a cup of coffee

that you shared with me,

while the gray sky’s furrowing brow

frowns and smiles at the same time although

you walk towards me and hand me a kiss:

in a small plate,

surrounded by pretzels.


The chilled floor from the a/c

still makes me feel cold

and you come near my soul and touch it

right in the center, in its beating heart,

while my hairs stand on end

and your warmth spreads through me

like a crisp summer day…

not too cold;

just right.


The flowers you brought me last week sit dying

by the TV, by the letter you gave me

the day you handed me the universe

in the palm of my hands.

And here we are,

breathing each others air, waking each others best

bettering each other’s worst

and it makes me blue and happy all the same:

just like the bittersweet embrace of this life’s consent,

to be cursed into living fully

and dying as




as we have arrived.



half a smile that I share with you

as I take a small bite of my sandwich

and a sip of your gaze,

whereupon my soul dances in the merry disarray

of knowingly having an inevitable loss

where a paradoxical life on a pendulum sways

and whimpers and asks a seemingly timed beat of a heart,

might I sit here with my legs crossed?


your warm hand caresses my top thigh

and I look at you like I did that very first day,

when I saw you sitting outside, on a table in a parking lot,

and you caught my eye as I stood lifeless in the doorway,

my heart skipping beats, my pendulum swinging towards you:

our fates



Oh, but how wonderful it was to realize,

on that very mundane, gray, ordinary day in August,

that a life with no curse is no life at all:


a life is no life, unless you dread the curtain call.


-C. Bauxa

August 9, 2016


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