I haven’t seen her in a month of sundays,
Her fragrance always left me wanting more,
Upstairs by the window, adored,
The second sunday of the month.
I was sure she was an act of god,
The bad type, uncontrollable,
When she left, I was inconsolable,
The last Sunday of the month.
I sat by the same window,
Dreaming of her company,
Hungering for her love for me,
The third Sunday of the month.
I met her purely by accident,
A friend of a friend, but better,
I looked in her soul, knew I could get her,
That was a month of Sundays.