The window is open and the breeze is so nice and I don’t even mind that it is Monday and I always hate Monday’s but I can’t wait for Monday’s when you have someone. And you want their 530 Monday night when they come home, exhausted and irritated, and they wiggle the tie from their neck and grab a beer and sigh. ‘It was a long day,’ they say but still manage to smile for you. And you sigh and unwind each limb like flowers in spring and you say, 'I know. I’m glad you’re home.’ And you eat dinner together and talk and laugh and suddenly Monday’s are just a bit busier Sunday’s and it’s the person that makes it, ya know? And you climb into bed on a night like tonight where it’s cool but the breeze is promising summer soon, all those winter months are over. And you can see the shadows on their skin and suddenly you wish almost every day could be this sort of Monday, the sort where he’s next to you and his eyes are sleepy but happy and his skin is warm under the covers but a little cool above and you can write words on his collar bones with your mouth or your fingers if you wish it and it doesn’t even have to make sense because what makes sense is touching him after your longest days. And maybe that’s what love is. Maybe it’s just finally wishing every day could be a Monday with him.