Wanting to be your Sunday morning,
I still agreed on a Friday night.
Wanting to be the messy bun,
My blow-dried curls look almost right.
And when I dream of long night talks,
Your weekly “hey” still draws a smile.
The ticket prints for a 2-hour train,
But tell me, where’s your extra mile?
I guess it’s the tragedy my heart now tries to fix,
Of not being your December twenty-fourth,
But always get the twenty-sixth.
