It’s only on Sundays her heart breaks,

surveying blurred lines and treacherous memories,

the morning birds lamenting the sun.

She listens to echoes from Friday,

trails of green and lavender and mahogany cracked

and running away on the evening wind.

Mondays are reserved for work, funny how the wind

seems to roar through glossy screens and coffee breaks.

She buries seeds, away from the birds who have cracked

into her secret stash, stored in memories.

She waits for another Friday

whilst dying evenings bleed into the living sun.

Fleeting wails fade with the new sun,

another Tuesday to wind

up and give down.  Just like last Friday,

she travels alone on the subway until the electricity breaks,

carving out jagged memories

to keep in her diary, ripped, swollen, and cracked.

Time has stopped.  Cracked

mirrors line her walls, lingering fingers from the sun

tease open drawers and Wednesday’s memories.

She combs her hair, facing the wind.

Watches tick backwards.  Everything eventually breaks,

she notices.  Even her beloved Friday.

She thinks of Friday.

Like terracotta soldiers, she is cracked,

her armored chest covering hollow breaks,

weeping blackened tears from the summer sun.

Neon lightning crumples her face, Thursday wind

weaving luminous memories.

Starved eyes peer into her memories,

hungry for the honey-glazed Friday

when he fled into the wind,

Eyes closed, hands locked, hearts cracked

open.  For one last time, the sun

breaks.

In the silence her memories begin to wander, their cracked

porcelain curves spreading into Friday like the rays of the sun.

The restless wind finally breaks.

 Elyse Hwang is a writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area.  She loves autumn leaves, wandering, and wondering.  When she’s not writing, you can find her taking photographs of the sunset.