Fridays

The Fridays
disappear on the table.
then reappear in summer
Meanwhile we ride a bicycle
until the meaning of things
but the tours are on Sundays.
Fridays touch my skin
Lightly
And appear attached to self-love.
sad Fridays Crawl
by the end of the afternoon promising relief
ensuring love and rest,
hope as deep as the sewers.
On Friday I write my name on the saddle of your bike
This might be the weekend in which you call me.
for years every day has been
a Friday.

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