Sam Turner/TMD.

if love exists, it exists on Sunday, 

in the hazy ever-after of the day of rest,

once the mourning of morning has subsided,

tuned into the slow murmur of God,

love reverberates while we, 

or the we that is me

roam in absurdity, 

obscurity, 

maybe purity, 

outstanding in obsolescence to others,

a blessed sense of being, nonetheless,

if love exists, it exists in idleness, in stillness, in silence

and if love exists, it exists in the ultimate antithesis of that, 

for love is not flat, nor is it one-dimensional or unintentional,

if love exists, it exists in the un/conditional contradictions of finality and totality,

it exists in the forgetting of the self but not the soul,

in parts and of whole, in hallowed holes of shirts and shoes passed down,

worn and torn, 

tattered, 

brown, 

borrowed and sorrowed,

if love exists, it exists in the sorrowed, ceaseless suffering of existence, 

yet love is perpetual persistence,

so, love exists in an early morning,

a sleepless night,

a layover flight,

a necessary plight,

love exists as a cluster of clothes on the floor, 

a messy table, 

a prolonged chore,

a rushing out the door for some-thing divine,

a promise placed in space,

some-where in time,

love is not for-ever

but for eternity,

love is God, is Good, and exists for Goodness sake,

for its, 

and our,

and mistakenly my own s[t]ake,

love is in the reflection, in the reflection,

love exists in betwixt existence, 

or it is existence, 

or i’m uncertain, 

but love exists, 

perhaps, 

in the uncertainty,

love is in a letter, 

in a word, 

in the words, 

in the Word, 

and in the world,

it exists in the cognitive processes which punctuate our existence, 

begetting subsistence and resistance,

it exists in the rhyme and rhythm,

in the precision of the decision to break both,

it exists in the beats and breaths written in this fated scene, 

so effortlessly fixed in between nothing to say and everything to be said,

love exists in our pupils’ dialectical dilation,

apprehending our annihilation in the mediation, 

a meditation,

grappling and grasping what it’s like to be grasped,

unclasped at the seams, 

searching through reams, 

and seeking out themes,

love exists, 

lingering in the cadence, 

the agency of our authenticity,

love exists in the most subtle tiniest inflection, 

the mildest of membrane connections,

in the maybe these molecules are holy, shit—

it exists in the reverence of what’s before, 

the promise of much more, 

a realm unexplored,

unrevealed yet reminiscent,

love exists in the knowing that i digress, 

i digress, 

i digress, 

i digress til i’ve forgotten where i began,

and have no idea of how to end

of what is the end, 

where to end and where to begin…

so for now,

for the love of God — if God exists — let me rest.

if Sunday subsists, let me rest. 

MiC Columnist Karis Clark can be reached at kariscl@umich.edu.