Already Wednesday. Already the trains on rails keep running. And no manner of French films I watch or bottles of red wine I consume. Reduce the crushing folds of the sheets that tangle me up at night. Remove the strange constricting notion, now a foreign gesture, of sleeping with clothes on. The stain of my love. Red ribbons and long distance phone calls. When an affair of love is so perfect. So sweet that it becomes a dream you almost thought you might have once tried to live. Like realizing you are better than who you are. Can the everything continue? Or in order for it to remain perfect, does it have to end? Would the laws of motion suddenly catch it up? Deliver it back over to something unremarkable. Turn the perfection into a white athletic sock. Balled up and found, unmatched, behind the radiator?