Saturday morning
is an unseen sunrise
usurping my sleep; pain splayed
just behind my temple.
It’s
the dreaded goodbye
whispered by weekdays
filtering through the fabric of my shirt collar
like teardrops
and landing along with my gaze
on your nicest shoes.
As my eyes rise, my mind’s eye
is frantically memorizing all your lovely edges
duct-taping images of you to
every surface of my memory.
Saturday morning
hides in purple shadows circling my kneecaps
and hints at the giant, painful subtlety
of the unknown, sewn between my future and
yours.
Saturday morning
is clung like grass and dew,
early me and you
so spitefully aware
of every ticking second tacked on
to our ages.
And in the end,
Saturday morning
dies bittersweet on the tips
of our tongues; a
wordless assurance of
Sunday.