poetry

weekend

today is saturday,

another in a chain

of saturdays stretching on,

linked, pulling, fragile–

today is saturday,

but I am tired of it.

each second passes,

each minute, each

hour changes me

and I am afraid of the

thousands

of saturdays

I have yet to live.

who will I be when I wake up

tomorrow?

my saturdays are finite

but yours are limited

and we’ve never really

been able to breathe

together.

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