A Sunday

Flickered and dimmed,
even the stars paled
in comparison,
the sun,
even.
The sun,
you hadn't even seen in months,
months of calculated and minor
abuses,
transgressions,
a winter wearing.
You know the ending,
why fill in the blanks?
And such reasoning,
you can't unring.
We wished we'd died innocent,
sometimes.
It's waiting,
only.
A beautiful accident,
anything.
It's getting too dark even to read,
trading the halogen
for perpetual candlelight.