ROME

monday morning you're so much like the red painted sky,
all color, all full of feathery flocks of birds that
chirp to one another as they migrate in late fall.

on tuesday you're a busy corner of a heavily walked
street, where the pavement in the shade is cool to
the touch of hands and dirty bare-feet.

wednesday you're a stray blonde hair stuck between
interlaced threads in the hood of a red sweater,
laying empty in my dresser drawer.

on thursday you're the forceful snap of a finger
which hits the rhythm exact true to the beat, echoing
off the walls and filling the street.

friday is an end and you're the end of a long novel,
written in the 19th century, when all one could do
was write with a pen.

saturdays we usually spent at the river, you're
the blanket - warm and soft and damp from the
grass on top of which we slept.

sunday's you're a yellow dress worn clean and mannered;
you're a pink flower behind an ear, stuck in yellow hair;
you're the stained glass;

you're the holy water.

you were something i loved so much,

but now i just hate you

so damn much