Friday
Can I see how far this mist will be?
It's the joke on this Friday,
An unspoken sour moment here
sitting both on chairs each one so far away.
The mist on the most rare flirt
is my hanging guilt of this cold sight,
I stared and longed your linen gray skirt;
you laughed, your waist was a fog-like kite.
Thus the room disappears in the ashtray,
It would be great if it weren't Friday
so we could be intacts as in a Monday
or gloomy and violent like in a Sunday.
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