The Calendar

I want you to have my Sundays. When the lazy morning sun warms my sleeping eyes I should be lying next to you.

On cloudy blue Tuesdays where the only thing worthwhile is curling up together on the couch, I want to be sipping excessively creamed coffee filled with all the Splenda in our cabinets.

When Friday’s neon stars get plugged in, I want to be riding in the passenger seat of your Camaro; listening to airy music on your ancient speakers.

I’ll keep my Manic Mondays, Brooding Wednesdays, and Anxious Thursdays, but I want to give you all the rest: every gorgeous emotion —because you’re worth the whole damn calendar.

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