Could’ve skipped it.

Could’ve erased it.

Wouldn’t have mattered much.

A few messages, but not like usual.

A thread stretched thin, loose instead of woven.

No stolen time,
   no moments carved out,

   just the hours running ahead without us in them.

I filled the space
        with words—
          too many…

        pages where a sentence would’ve done—

Until the letters blurred and she had to look away.

So, we’ll call it what it was—
                       a wash,
                   a lost day,
                  a Wednesday…

                  that won’t be remembered.

Except for the way it made me need Thursday—
                              that much more.