I think he knew and that's what broke him.

Hey, pretty one. I wish you'd know why I write this. Maybe you do. But I'm happy. Because i can write again. Because I know he listens. I think he knew and that's what broke him. His name was Tuesday. He would through arrows of anger towards you if you giggle or say some ridiculous comment about his name, but still, everyone laughed, no one believed and he still threw arrows sometimes just because of habit. The name was the single interesting part of him. He was a loner. Sometimes I sat across him on that poor excuse of a table we had and thought that his name is suited for him. He was exactly like Tuesday. Mondays are the hard beginning, when all you can hope for is for the week to process as fast as it could. On Monday everyone waits for Wednesday, while it's the little Friday they say. Thursdays are when you feel obnoxious, Fridays are when you celebrate, Saturday and Sunday, you don't even have to describe them, they are what makes all week worth while. So what happens to Tuesday? It gets lost and unnoticed, that's what. And I can tell you, this boy was totally lost. He was my neighbor. I was his girl next door, though, a little less fancy, a little less sexy and a little less broken. And I knew he wouldn't want it any other way, because he was an artist, not a geek with millions of fantasies about girls in improper way. He was a poet. A good one. A sad one. Although that's inseparable, isn't it? Every good poet has his heart broken. On the first family, neighbor meeting I asked him on which day had he born. He looked at me with a sad smile on his lips and said that it was Thursday. It made me even more curious about his name, but he never said a thing about why he has a name of a day. (Sometime later my sister asked him the same question and his answer was completely different. He liked to play with my brains like that.) If there was a day when he wasn't at school it was Tuesday. You could ask him all you want but he'll never tell you where he goes on these days. After a while I just laughed it off and said that he just want to be more mysterious then he already is, his name, the days, no coincidence. He smiled and stayed quiet. He liked it this way. After school he went to college somewhere far away from our homes. He still sent me a letter every now and then, but it was just a formality. (A little bit later he admitted that I was his key to keep sane.) I wrote him back, babbling and chatting, but never mentioning the feelings I get from the empty seat across our poor excuse of a table. That was my key for keeping it sane. He died when he was 20, still in the college, still young and still broken. He died on Tuesday. Every mention of Tuesday, every Tuesday made me think of him. He surely is sitting somewhere on the cloud looking down on me with that sad smile and writing poetry. He probably knows that I can't keep him out of my head; he probably feels joy on that. Tuesday sees how I'm reading his poetry every night before drifting to sleep. He knows that soon everyone will be able to buy it, because I wished to tell people the story of his heart. And every syllable, every rank, every versa was as beautiful as his smile. I got money for something he wrote, and I knew he wouldn't care. Sometime I think that's why he even wrote it, so I had something to do, when he is not around. So I lived on with his words in my heart and waited for the moment to come. For the moment he described in his last poem. For the moment when "I'll be waiting for you" will be said aloud and the "I'll show you why" will become reality.