freethepoets

It was a Friday,
possibility.
Which is to say that you didn’t know him yet,
but you were getting there.
That each word was a step on a learning curve.


Along came Saturday.
Which is to say that
fidgeting fingers on radio dials
didn’t know how not to throw sparks,
That the night smelled crisp
and people kept mistaking you for his
and you never corrected them
that he was the eighth color of the rainbow
and that you were incandescent.


This was just to say that he always knew to expect you on Sunday nights
because Sunday nights you were alone with your mind
and he’d roll down the windows so you could breathe,
That Sunday, you asked a poet’s questions
Which is to say that metaphors stopped working
and you didn’t even know if you were alive
Which is to say that he didn’t save you, just dusted you off.


That meant that you wrote about him every Monday
his broken clockwork smile
the way his mouth moved when he said the word “bullshit”
that his skin was so soft because he never even tried
how he was energy incarnate, always moving,
never moving towards you,
Which is to say that your motormouth moved eight million miles a minute
that you were hopeless—
a lost dove.


All of a sudden it was Tuesday
and his mind clicked with yours like a bobby pin in a lock
which is to say that all the clocks melted when you were together
that when your palms touched, the dictionaries cried
because words were of no importance anymore
that he was your truth.
and your axis.


You could never wait for Wednesday.
WEDNESDAY, the curve of his chest
WEDNESDAY, so warm the equator was jealous
WEDNESDAY, licking sweet tension out of the air
WEDNESDAY: the sky, the sun’s finger-painted masterpiece
wednesday: no layers.


Which is to say that it was a Thursday
and that he was as reliable as they came,
that he was a letter home
finally, five gold stars and a pat on the back from your momma
because this time you fell correctly
because your grandfather told you to date someone who uses their turn signal
that car ride, that steady hand, that constant contact
which is to say that you couldn’t help but love him,
it was destiny.


He
drove a ‘99 Honda Accord
Which is to say that he he understood you
and loved you just to prove it.

"Love is a 1999 Honda Accord," by freethepoets (via freethepoets)