monday, monday.

the rain is still pouring
when i drag myself out
of your bed
in the early dark hours of the
morning; over my shoulder you
don’t make a sound as i slip
out the door.

i’m steering myself home
my fingers cold and stiff on
the wheel- the rain’s stirred up
layers of summer-baked oil and
the roads are dangerous slick with it.

the cold is coming and
honey listen- you know it isn’t
that i mind the change so much
as i wish
that someone would have warned me.