there is no day for this.

happy is the resistance of cold air
between our chapped, tired lips.
it is the volume of our screaming
and our dreaming and redeeming
and sometimes on rainy mondays
it is the white sterility of medical
walls and the talk of drugs and
the underlying lies that jab at our
skin from beneath like
broken bones.

sad is at five in the morning
when i still haven't slept and i
honestly have nothing to do but
lie in bed and imagine how i might
be laying if you were there too.
today sad is the decrepit way
my fingers forget how to bend
to just the right shape in order
to conform to
yours.

opposites are a child's dream
they are glossy paint on green
unbroken lips and they are
swimming just beneath our
veins
white and red and
could-be's.