In hopes of clinging to Monday

Sitting alone, typing away, at 7 p.m. 
This is the most perfect way
to spend a Sunday night. 
The air outside grows colder,
whipping away,
whispering,
howling
to me. 
The wind tells me to write,
the wind tells me
not to feel down,
on the day leading me,
leaving me,
to Monday. 
Monday, 
the start of everything,
the start of a trek
from one side of the globe
to the other. 
From one side of life,
perhaps,
to the other. 
So many things
can happen
starting on Monday.
But when I finally,
finally make my way to Friday,
dragging feet and twitching eyes,
I look back and I wonder,
what happened to Monday?
I thought it was behind me
all this time. 
The days start to mix,
and a week,
eventually,
seems to me as just one day. 
Where has all the time gone?
And so I sit here, alone,
typing, tapping away at 7 p.m.,
in hopes of clinging to Sunday,
to Monday,
for just a little bit longer.