Sundays are for goodbyes
Sometimes I forget to be present.
Am I enough?
To each their own.
This is dedicated for all of you who give yourselves to others.
We don’t choose when our vices come to call.
I don’t make promises anymore.
The road to poetry is littered with demons. What will you do with them?
Disappointment is hard to swallow
Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash