Sleeping in with Saturday

Wake up and try to recall;
forget, and go back to sleep.
Hopscotch back to the starting line.
Hold my hand and I'll show you
the precise angle of my foot when
I took the first step, but let's not
count the ones I retraced--not yet.
Days like this never come.
I break the zipper on
my favorite pair of jeans.
I rip out the pockets
and constrict my wrists with the
suspended belt. Smile,
and call me mad.
Night comes with cold. I pour
wine from a box, wishing it was
whiskey, and trace the rivers
on a map of India with my bare
ring finger. I'm careful not to spill.
Morning is late again. I pretend
I had never really woken up,
wrapped in a new weekend,
sleeping in with Saturday.
My breath is damp, thick
with fermented conversations
I had never spoken--not yet.
Days like this never come.