Yield of You

When love is not to be found.

Never on a Monday will I ever assume,
that like on Sunday in your heart you’ll have room.
Never again, will I think that of you.

Please forgive me, because I’m out in the blue;
I was simply taken by the Sunday in you.
But now it is Monday, and I haven’t a clue.

What a day makes, when we put on the care;
Monday only titters at a Sunday affair.
Where goes the heart when the day turns a page?
Is there any time for all the feelings to age?

So on Monday I will muddle on through,
since the cloud nine Sunday was a mere rendezvous.
Deep down in your eyes, I thought I recognized you.

Never on the morrow will I then again think,
that the sleep of love will rise tomorrow in pink.
Now I understand that feelings wane with a wink.

What a day can make when two hearts only compare;
Monday breaks up smartly from a Sunday affair.
Never on a Sunday will I ever again,
trust the one pretending love parading as ten.

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