on mondays, we woke with clouds under our eyes
and slight headaches from the previous nights,
but we trudged through the week nonetheless.
on tuesdays, we worshiped the world
through rose-colored glasses (because everything blue
looks better tinted red)
on wednsdays, you made me melt, shiny black boots
and that cherry cigar smoke on your breath.
on thursdays, we'd anticipate fridays,
lingering around corners, lighting candles
on cold windowsills for the dead in us.
on fridays, i'd undress you, shiver and moan,
and drink some more.
on saturdays, we'd hope to god,
oh god, that we'd make it through the night
because we'd taken it too far this time.
and on sundays, past 11,
you'd whisper "never again" against my ear,
your arms around my waist possessive.
by now, i should recognize your pretty little lies.
and this is where i should say goodbye,
but instead i count down
monday morning with a heartache locked