Sunday Line

(ooh) Quiet Sunday, dial tone glow

Twenty years of the same slow hour, kettle warm and the daylight low. You pick up before the second ring, Elena, and the week lets go.

I start a story you already know, and still you let me tell it slow.

Elena, you keep my every chapter, the clumsy ones, the ones I'd hide. Never once a raised eyebrow after, just a laugh and room inside.

You remember names I half forgot, the rooms, the rain, the things I said. You hold them gentle as a folded note tucked somewhere safe instead.

Two decades of ordinary talk, and somehow that's the rarest thing — a voice that never keeps a score, just waits to hear me sing.

Elena, you keep my every chapter, the messy ones, the softer side. No judgement in the quiet after, just a friend on the other line.

Same time next Sunday, love. (ooh) same time, same line.