This week, yesterday, and two months from now.
On Tuesday’s I make brunch and pretend it’s Sunday, which is simply done when listening to The Velvet Underground.
Days pass and Friday feels more like the start to a week.
A grocery list.
A mannerism I collected as though stamps.
On Monday I forget what day it is. When probed with questions of the date, I remember it’s May by the flowers I saw as I walked outside or how happy my mom’s been as of late.
On Wednesday two years ago I’m sure I felt a certain way.
Even as the bell rang I’d come to find I didn’t have the notebook that should’ve been under my arm. On that Wednesday i’d be prepared for the following.
I don’t recall the notecards I studied a day later.
If I close my eyes I can see the way the sky looked four birthdays ago and four before.
On Saturday my clothes are all over the floor and there’s an empty takeout container where books should be found.
By Sunday my clothes are washed and I’ve walked 10 blocks to find the stack that wasn’t by my bed yesterday. The next might feel an awful lot like a Tuesday, with articles to write and those written I won’t read but rather cut the images from.
Then two Tuesdays pass and i’m jet lagged. I drink 3 espressos and no one speaks the same language. It’s alright because the colors are vibrant, it smells of lavender, and three years from now I’ll know that three years ago the breeze was balmy and cafe table baby blue.