This needs time

We could decide time isn't a rhyme. Monday Tuesday Wednesday. Saturday feels different. It feels like the only day that isn't a wait for tomorrow.
For the first time in a long time I spontaneously sat to play the piano on a Saturday night.
Heavy eyelids and a song called Driving Sideways.
Sideways is the best way.
If we ever played a duet, our fingers would jumble and mix together and truly dance the best dance.
I can't hide it anymore, and I really don't like it either. I'm no longer denying the urge I have to tell you that I want to marry you maybe in five years. And try to be apart the least amount possible until then.
Time is a disguise, and it's all I can rely on. And that word I hate, as colorless as the color you get when you mix all the colors: love. Love is hard to rhyme.