sunday, three times

i feel her heart against mine still,
fluttering wildly against my collarbone in the pale dressings of morning
just past the blinds
i hear her speaking,
soft and secret
all these little things we do
and how the time just ticks and ticks
another breakfast,
then its thursday,
then we're sinking in the harbor
wrapped in waning adolescence

then its monday
then its breakfast
and we're kissing, touching, breathing
falling gently into tuesday
floating through the evenings,
slipping right past wednesday
like the water through our fingers

then its thursday
and we're leaving
homeward bound and steeped in silence -
loving silence, gentle silence
how our hearts long for the weekend,
how we long for every second
every soft and silky second
while we linger in the moment
in the past, and in the present