by sunday you'll be gone.

by monday she has your name tattooed across her left breast because that's where her heart is
but hell, you could care less about that. you just like to press your undeserving hands against the tattoo and
hell, it hurts her so much
but her eyes are full of tears and half-open eyelids and all she can see are your lips opened, like they're about to say 'i love you'.

[they're not.]

--

by wednesday she is wishing you a happy one month anniversary and between lusty looks that she misreads for love she is telling you that no word in english rhymes with month or purple which, by the way, is her favorite color.
she is telling you that your eyes stay the same size since you were born but that she thinks your heart can grow.
you are telling her you don't believe her.
you are living proof that she is wrong.

--

by sunday she is calling you four times a day. the first time you want to make her sweat a little so you don't answer. you are imagining her naked body leaving behind droplets of sweat as you listen to the message tell you that no, nothing is at the bottom of the rainbow.
the second time you answer and just breath into the phone. the only thing you really know about her besides that she has three moles running down her cleavage is that she likes that; she likes to breath in your own breath and imagine she can taste the rum she hates and cigarettes she wishes you'd stop smoking. she tells you she was suffocating until she met you because you're the life preserver everyone refused to throw her. what she doesn't know is that you're drowning her.
the third you answer and order her to meet you now at the park because the computers are down and you're feeling fucking horny. she runs to meet you and when she reaches the park she is full of sweat, just the way you like it.

the fourth time you don't answer because you are too exhausted from sex to lie to her.