The Forgetfulness of Tuesdays.

She studied her shoes for ages, laces frayed from her obvious clumsiness He touched her arm, lightly, as tornadoes settled themselves and memories fought the weather, her hair, it seemed, was nappier on Tuesdays, and he tousled her when she woke up. "Please" was always spoken too lightly, she fell inside herself with the familiarity of requests and apologized for winter's mess, she shook her head, her eyes always fell on Tuesdays, and sighed, for how is tragedy pretty? He snapped pictures for their calendars, she pasted them above dates and message boards on smudged kitchen walls, she fell in love with the deterioration of paper and decided hate would fit him better, the stacked boxes above her refrigerator sang out lonliness and the letters that wrote out their connection on Friday nights spoke now of neglect. She walked through hallways, lit dimly by apple cinnamon scented candles, and watched her shadow lead her though silent rooms, her fingers slid across the cracks that had become the voices of abused dishes and anger, in January, when Tuesday's sun rose too cold, when Friday nights made her shiver and the sweaters he laid upon her shoulders became threadbare, for this was neglect weaved in between with the threads of spoken love. Day breaks in the middle of thought sometimes, as silence breaks with breathing, and there was a reminder at twelve twenty seven a.m. that he was there and dreaming, that she was useless, save for the hair that tickled her cheeks when they became rosy from the wind that stung her alabaster skin on Friday nights in January and she tied her shoes, certain that the laces would soak in puddles of melting ice, walked through doorways as her shadow followed her to the portrait of hope where alone wasn't signified by the beating hearts that forgot to love on Tuesdays.