Literaryspill, Of Mornings and Weekdays on mondays I like...

Of Mornings and Weekdays

on mondays

I like to listen to music on the train

its always the same-song

the one you dedicated to me

(without knowing of course)

its always the same voice blaring through

vocalizing unhinged thoughts

of desperation and lust

the words always leave me breathless

- in the constricted, can’t breathe

running out of oxygen type of way-

you know the type of breathing that hurts

but like all proud masochists

I am glued to the fire that burns me

like a deaf child hearing his mother’s voice

for the first time

enticed by the velvety smoothness of her sound

overwhelmed by the brevity of moving lips

analyzing the fragility of a whisper

I realize now

that some things are delicate

only to be handled with care

but I rarely ever do

so my trembling hands caress the edges

of hard plastic-frantically-

searching for the delete key

and then I remember that you also like to do that

-erase the things you don’t need anymore-

on mondays

I remember…you can’t always get what you want

© Nathalie M. Viorato

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