you asked about tuesday before you mentioned the hollow of my eyes. mondays were better. you could help me out if only i would promise one thing. i hated making promises.

i could hook you up, i’d remind you. i could make you happier. you, of course, didn’t need my offerings. i insisted while you persisted. two. one. more. one. none. could you even be trusted? our voices would climb in volume before eventually dissolving into laughter. it was always this way with you.

“butter,” i said as i recommended ways to save your memory.

the truth was that we could never melt because you’d be counting and i couldn’t stand to be average. 

when i was feeling whimsical, my facial expressions would make you fall apart. you’d become a complete wreck of euphoric tears; hysterical sobs.

“why are you so fucking funny?”

we engaged in cheers between shots and beers. i’d pretend to absorb your shady advice, ignoring the ways in which you always thought of yourself first. still, if i was funny, you were smooth. and i’d continue to work on my sarcasm. 

after all, i did promise, did i not? 

you’d find ways to reach me behind my walls yet you fully understood my need for space. and i had those days. we both did. sometimes we’d rate them when feeling bold or jaded. other times, without explanation, we just wouldn’t show. between us, all was understood.

upon my return, i’d find your detailed recollections of previous days. you’d relay every moment i’d missed in vivid detail with a strange tone of perfection. i wondered if you were secretly a professional. i’d respond nonchalantly as though i hadn’t just consumed a masterpiece of sorts. and i’d selfishly continue to consume these hidden works of art week after week.

“tell me why i don’t like mondays,” i’d demand, quoting one of my favorite musicians.

your eyes would roll but we both knew you relished your understanding of obscure references. for that reason alone, i would feed these to you.

i would then reference the ways in which i also loved to understand while simultaneously swearing that i’d had my fill of understanding as a whole. you joked that i should change my name to paradox. briefly, i considered it. 

still: mondays.  every single monday, you would serve me breakfast.

“tell me why i don’t like mondays,” i’d ask again.

“because you’re a pain in the ass.”

i couldn’t argue.

i'd be thrilled to hear your true, uncensored thoughts. i'd also love to read your writing.