Fridays
The Fridays disappear on the table. then reappear in summer Meanwhile we ride a bicycle until the meaning of things but the tours are on Sundays. Fridays touch my skin Lightly And appear attached to self-love. sad Fridays Crawl by the end of the afternoon promising relief ensuring love and rest, hope as deep as the sewers. On Friday I write my name on the saddle of your bike This might be the weekend in which you call me. for years every day has been a Friday.