Everyday but Monday

Did I let you go, or did you fade first?
Or maybe I loved you beyond the worst.
Maybe the ache was all my own,
a ghost I built, and lived in like home.

I’ve moved on, I’ve grown, I’ve learned to pretend,
but memory doesn’t know how to end.
And when night folds its quiet wings,
you’re still the echo that softly stings.

Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it’s true,
but did I ever stop wanting it to be you.
I love someone else now, in color, not gray,
but when I hear a knock, my heart still sways.

Not every hour, but most of the days,
maybe every day but Monday’s haze.
But Monday’s a mask, a practiced tune,
a lie I hum beneath the moon.

You were a storm that never rained,
a love half-born, yet unexplained.
We never touched, not skin, not breath,
but you still haunt the air like death.

You lived in the pauses between my words,
in the thoughts too fragile to be heard.
And somehow that distance hurt much more
than anything I’ve ever reached for before.

“Some people live only in your mind,”
I tell myself, but you’re not that kind,
you live in the things I never said,
in the poems I thought I’d never write instead.

The way your name hums low in my chest,
like a prayer that never found it's rest,
you linger quiet, sharp, and deep,
the kind of wound that learns to sleep.

You were a maybe I mistook for fate,
a closed door I still await.
And I can’t un-see what you never did,
or un-feel the life I only lived.

Every day but Monday,
because on Mondays I try to be new.
But come Tuesday morning, it bleeds back through,
the truth I carry, the ache I’ve learned to keep,
some loves are born just to never leap.

You hurt me the worst, though you never tried,
and maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s denied.
Because nothing cuts deeper than “we were almost real,”
but my heart swears it remembers what it never got to feel.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2025

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