sometimes your whole life feels
like a monday.

you hate admitting that you're
living for friday afternoons
and the borrowed time
in your car, spent driving,
not knowing a destination
other than anywhere else
but here and now.
it hurts on the sunday
summer nights with a
rain so cold it
fogs your glasses:
the glow half-glimpsed
through the mist you wipe away
is more real
than anything else
in your eyes.

you never really
fit, square peg, into
the social sphere-
pretend all you want
that you've sanded
away your difference,
you can always tell that
under the caffeine and
coronas that you won't
ever match their

you can't understand why
they want you recast
in their grave images.
but your dark hope in rain
is far, far more potent
and real than their
condemnation by sunlight.
their indifference reduces
them to peeling triptychs,
and they see this slowly,
deeply misted in their minds.
and your sudden flashes
of what they deem irrationality
are the truth,
but they deny you
because you make them much
too uncomfortable
just by existing.

so you will never fit.
you will never play the
part that they want you to,
despite your desperate
imitation of their
artifice of life.
though you will play by
their rules, you will
never lose their game;
but you cannot ever
win it, either.

and it's so very, very
hard to say that it doesn't matter
when it cuts you to the quick.

but i want you to know
that you're not alone.
i want you to know
that on rainy monday mornings,
when you wake up and feel
that someone is thinking of you;
know that you are more real
than anything else
in my eyes.