Everything You Borrowed

On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.

When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.

Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.

After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.

Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to come.

The dusk of Friday waned
while you stripped it of its sorrows
and sewed them into my skin.

When Saturday came
you tried to steal the moon;
I watched as you stood on your tombstone
and stretched to reach it.
You fell, then--
fell, broke your neck,
and landed six feet under.

I couldn't cry afterwards,
for you had taken my agony
and washed it out to sea.

Rather, I stuck around
as Sunday loomed
to watch your trinkets
return themselves to the lives
they'd lived before.

I guess you were right:
it was only borrowing after all.