I count time in friday nights while wind whistles this pane behind my wrangling head sounding like a fairy train coming to claim me since no one else has chosen to and alone-ness is punctuated, but not by a question mark. the week is full of mondays as each morning burns my eyes but friday comes to flush them free, to help me see you in mind, under the moon, dark damp in grass but brilliant branded peace on your brow which is not your normal tone. it is a dream. these friday nights. they belong to me in any form I choose, and there's nothing to lose because I won't tell you that I would derail that whistling train would light the night with sunshine would be at war and move friday to monday if it meant feeling your breath on my neck in real life.