I Only Miss You On Sundays
I do not miss you on Mondays.
When the morning breaks I am in endless motion. I let the world swallow me whole into its vortex of responsibilities. My coffee and heart are both their strongest on these days. My mind is set on checking off a bold string of to-do bullet points, and loving you never makes the list.
I am content with the things I have let clutter my life, so I do not have room to think of you today.
I do not miss you on Wednesdays.
In these afternoons I am restless. We nickname Wednesdays like they are nothing but 24 hours of white noise, tired eyes and blank stares. They are heavy traffic on the freeway, something we just need to get through, convincing ourselves we will be happier once it’s over.
I no longer have the energy to think of how we met on this day of the week, or how it was possible that the tingling in my hands that night was not excitement- but a warning.
I don’t wish to go back in time and warn your curious molecules of my wandering atoms, to tell them that apart our constellations were captivating, but combined they will be four years of combusting supernovas, beautiful and destructive. I don’t have time to ruminate on how you broke my heart on three Wednesdays, or how I broke yours on four.
I like the calm insignificance that has become wrapped within all of my Wednesdays since you.
I do not miss you on Saturdays.
On Saturdays I breach the shining surface. I break the ribbon at the finish line, an underdog in first place.
I am kind to myself, I take time to notice things within me and things around me. I make a conscious effort to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made and for the vice’s I’ve refused to give up, the ones that anxiously took your place. When night falls I dig loose change out of the tip jar on my desk and paint on mascara without a waterproof safety net. I surround myself with people who I love and we laugh with the kind of whole hearted happiness that scrunches eyelids together and burns deep in your belly.
On Saturdays, I innocently flirt with strangers and dance without purpose. I do not feel your name lurking in the liquor burning down my throat anymore, I do not double take faces in the crowd that slightly resemble yours. The urge to call you does not even float across my mind, in fact I can’t even recall the 9-digit finger sequence that used to drop me at your doorstep all too easily. You no longer have any part of my Saturdays, and God that makes me so happy.
I have persistently kneaded you out of six days of the week, untangling you from each day like pulling clean laundry from dirty.
But there is something different about Sundays.
There is a stillness that makes room for your memory.
There is a quietness that welcomes you out from the corners of my mind, that greets the memory of you with a sad smile.
My bed grows three oceans wider and four arctics colder on Sunday mornings.
My limbs are entwined with sheets that start to smell like a fading version of you.
The sunlight slow dancing with dust through the bay window never seems to settle on Sunday afternoons. The foggy realities of why we didn’t work out, despite all-consuming attempts, cloud my living room.
The monstrous hangover of your absence throbs against my skull with the kind of relentlessness that no drug seems to numb.
Sometimes my Sundays taste like salt water. Sometimes they sound like 39 seconds of the song you used to love. Sometimes they end with scribbled words in my notebook, surrounded by pages painted with pretty words that have nothing to do with you anymore.
See, I only write about you on Sundays.
And I will let myself, because there are only 52 Sundays in a year. I will pack the hurt into a suitcase that remains locked until church bells chime and Saturday night subsides. I will spend the other 313 days of the year free from the tight grip of reminiscence. I will fill my Mondays with memories of places you haven’t seen, I will meet wonderful people on Wednesdays, I will try new and risky things on Saturdays.
I will build myself a life that does not know you, and for 6 days of the week I will be painstakingly free.
I read once that it is not about who you miss at 2 AM when you’re lonely, but who you miss at 2 PM when you’re busy.
When I got offered a new job, you weren’t the first person I told. When I bought a ticket across the ocean you didn’t pop into my head. I have stories your curious ears will never hear and scars your wandering fingers will never trace, and on 86% of my days, that idea no longer breaks my heart.
See I only miss you on the day that allows it. I miss you on a day that make forgiveness seem feasible, that encourages sacrifice and romanticizes weakness. I only miss you on the day that was built entirely for quiet whispers, skin on skin and tangled bodies. I only miss you on day that so wrongfully convinces me that there is something still here worth missing.
In some kind of cathartic way, I think I like your lingering memory in those 24 hours- so you can keep my Sundays.
Because even a fool knows that all Sundays have sunsets, and all sunsets melt into sunrises. Every night the world will spin and the clock will expire. I like to believe this is the universe’s whispering promise to me, as he leaves you behind tucked safely where you belong, in 52 of my yesterdays. 
