On Sunday
Nokyoung Xayasane

On Sunday, we wake up early.
I’ll make coffee from the beans
from that hipster café
near my apartment.
We’ll make our way
to the closest diner
for brunch.
You walk at a snail’s pace
and I slow down threefold
to keep abreast with you.
Spring seems to be
giving in slowly
letting in the light
without that bitter chill.
It’s no longer playing pretend.
We both order omelettes
and talk about Socrates and Plato
and Aristotle.
Who was it who pointed up
and who was it that pointed down?
Who taught who
and who was the student?
We try and think of a mnemonic
to help us remember.
Strawberry pancake agenda.
That will be the name of our album,
you say.
What will be the name of the band then?
We won’t have a name.
Nameless, I say.
Nameless, you say.
We finish our meal
and I stand to pay
with you behind me.
You kiss the top of my head
near my temple
as if you’ve done this
a million times before,
as if you’ll do this
a million times after,
as if this is not the first time
and perhaps
it won’t be the last.