Monday I Will Love You

Right now, you are an empty space,
a blank spot, a non-entity.
I do not see you.
Maybe, Monday I will love you,
but at the moment, I feel nothing
except that this day to day
disingenuous regard for one another
caustically erodes love's foundations.
I look outside my window at roses
or sparrows to find my heart no longer
wings its way to your eyes or your kisses;
I think only of flying away.
My mother and father for forty years
have eaten meals and lay their heads
weary from the day down together;
it sounds tragic or sickly sweet.
I am afraid that if love means this
then I do not want love.
Instead, give me passion, to die quickly,
to be reborn phoenix lovely in flames,
to never be complacent or downtrodden
in plain, ordinary, unchanging love.
I see it in their eyes sometimes
the questions of the rightness of love.
I only know that today love is a nail
in dead silence like a coffin.
I would rather the agony of nails in palms
to know that I am alive. I don't want to sleep.
Today I do not love you, but wish you would
rough hand against cheek remind me of stolen
nights beneath stars or quick mornings before
coffee.
Maybe Monday I will love you, but on a Wednesday
my heart beats in frustration craving what once
sent my skin tingling and my mind reeling in
grappling body warfare for affirmation of life.