I
mark the passing of days
by
the words I choose to say.
Say,
I choose to say, say, but
instead
I whisper my words
to
no one.
Sunday,
it’s Sunday I tell myself,
just
another word for just another
day,
not really the first day of the
week
for me, not the last one either,
but
can’t say for sure.
Might
as well be any other day
bearing
any other name.
The
same, I tell myself, everyday
the
same, except one day in passing,
another
week gone, an entire year later.
Midnight,
now midnight matters,
regardless,
it comes and goes with
every
passing day.
A
split second past 11:59 PM,
I
can depend upon midnight to follow
every
passing day no matter its name.
I
grow that much older past
midnight
every damned day
regardless
of the name.
I
whisper Monday, and no one
is
there to hear. Mondays do not
matter
to me.
Could
be Tuesday, yet another
Tuesday
for all I care.
Chris
Hanch 10-13-19
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