Hidden Formations

  It's blue Monday and we know what to do, fall apart in the black and blue, hold our heads above the true. We're allowed to fall apart this day in the sinking hullabaloo. This is allowed. The missing and the missed and the damage they do.

  Tuesday is grey all day, heartbreaking into Wednesday. Which is exactly why I worry you'll have a heart attack and so I stay in bed and read Hemmingway to keep the unease at bay. But that get's people talking and something deep inside of me is afraid of what they'll say.

  From what I can tell Wedesday is a repeat of Tuesday. Nothing more, nothing less. It's a holding day full of cleaning to address and sufferings to confess and daydreams to undress. And sometimes I wonder if this is what makes me always need to convalesce.

  This is the day, dear sir, the day I don't care about you, never looking back; don't even start. The day spins around in a blur and aren't these really the days you prefer? Let me tell you about avoiding tomorrows: Friday's coming, but for you love, I demur.

  Then the mythical day of Friday comes and fates are sealed and bets are off. Fridays say never hesitate and even the strong succumb. This is backsliding day but it will surely pass and these bewitching aspirations will crumble and turn to crumbs.

  Saturday, saturday, what a surprise. Monday thru Friday had no idea what Saturday would randomize. Surely, you kid me, Saturday? Pull on my leg and rationalize. I live in my own world anwyay and folly is where Saturday dies.

  Sunday is slow and late. But Sunday won't take the bait. Sunday speaks my name a thousand days away, combing the calendar for the soul of a mate.