Tuesday, I’ve written of you before,
you’re the day that seems to always attract the rain.
Now, my thoughts race around in a fog— the move, the secret.
It’s always about cycles,
grow and change and move.
Die and live and die.
Tonight I can’t see your face in the dark. Reaching out,
I can’t find the curve of your jaw. I can’t feel
the jeans on your legs. I can’t see your wide eyes shining
in the light sneaking in through the cracked door.
But you are in my head nevertheless.
Tuesday, you seem to breathe more slowly today.
Your head is back; your mouth is gaped open.
The air is thick and hard to swallow. Today, you may
just close your eyes and give up.
Live and die and live. It is all a cycle. Tuesday may be gone, but
there is another waiting.