fuck this thousand thread count bullshit it was 11 on monday morning and i was mumbling to myself tossing bits of girlishness into a frayed edge backpack dominique rolling over smiling lightly at my musings he must have seen it coming nothing better for us to do but lounge on Mondays concoct a quest for the perfect bagel on Tuesday perfect our turkish coffee skills on Wednesday scout out the perfect jump spot on Thursday on Fridays we'd head out to Ellum drowning ourselves in local vibes until Saturday found us lost in our own madness separating to our own forays questioning each others whereabouts come Sunday then kissing falling into bed 'til Monday when it would all begin again it was the life of privilage with no effort put forth and though it makes little sense to anyone else i found there to be something extremely wrong with that.Birth sign: Libra
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by e. h..