You sounded like a Monday, coaxing me gently from my weekend of sleep.
Your words were like amethyst, carved from rock.
You were like the seconds spent in a waiting room, keeping me hopeful and waiting.
But what I missed was that you were actually a Friday, putting me to bed and throwing heavy blankets on me like snow.
You were a cliff, unable to be scaled or sculpted. A cliff I would throw myself off of.
And you were really the hours, the days, the weeks. Nothing hopeful. And no longer waiting.