you stab your sterling fork in the egg yolk sun;
i'll willingly call it a sunset
while you
trace the stretch marks on my hips.
remember when you used to
mistake the fruit flies on the bridge of my nose as freckles.
we lay on vacant beaches every
sunday evening,
milk tides swallow us up and spit us out in the morning.
then we kiss monday's fingertips and lean over the balcony listening to the street jazz performing songs we
can't seem to remember the names to.
it feels like only yesterday i was walking down the aisle with a pretty white gown and a bouquet of calla lilies,
when monday is sleeping, i rest my head on your chest, hearing nothing but the sound of rain
and the slow beating
of your soft heart.
