look at this
you are a painting.
colors, blended oils,
without a brush perfect
enough to capture your laughter.
the way you grab my hand
and see me, silhouetted
like nobody else has ever
touched me. because
you are saturdays,
with silver reflected mirrors
on back roads with temperatures
too cold to roll up windows.
i read you my words
you wipe tears
on my face and laugh.
firefly backdrop so close,
but untrappable—
full caution behind their wings.
i disregard the alarms
because saturdays are
every day with you