love is a weekend
we all look so much
forward to.

the reality is
we all live weekdays
banal and harsh.

bruised on Mondays,
thrill on Wednesdays,
celebrate privately
internally on
Fridays now
that we're too old to celebrate by staying out till 6am on a Saturday.

a man is a weekend
to rejoice over for a while
before that love turns into a weekday.

finished like milk
as novel as bread
smoked till the end like cigarettes.

excuse me for sounding like I've lived through
three work years of weekdays.

fact is
I have
I probably will

love my men
love my weekends.

it's just over too soon.

we fuck cook suck eat
read
shower fuck
write again like this.

Suddenly I can't remember now if it's Saturday or Sunday
or if I have a man in my life who loves me still


It is a Sunday,
Back to bruise tomorrow.