Love is not only about the times
of your wild Friday nights,
doing all these wicked crimes
under the sheets or city lights.
It’s not about the mornings
of Saturday with a hangover,
straight to the sink, his hand holding
your head as you wake up sober.
It’s not about the Sundays
of pretentious brunch or rest,
lounging around all day on the chaise
before Monday comes at last.
Love is also about the rest of the days
of the week by the time you’re eighty,
counting down until it’s time to lay
old, but happy and never lonely.