Killing Time

And it’s Sunday all over again, In my word and in your beauty. Your silence, so fragile, Penetrable and deep. It’s like being trapped In a museum. Monday, I feel my shoulders Heavy as every instant You become more bashful. Tuesday turns to Thursday, While I watch your Obsessive, irritated brow. I don’t want you to leave, Yet you must… I’d lock you up till Friday. I’d write to you, However it would not be me who rides The pen… but My spirit, pouting from disillusion. Still, Saturday morning You’ll surely be gone And it will turn To Sunday all over again… For I still bear The weight of your death. Another week and a killer I still remain. © 2009 Stefania Carmen Misaila