"Regret as a Product of Friday's" (possible draft)

When Friday comes,
the sparks are grand,
inhibition gone
as a drop escaping
the open neck of a frosty bottle.
When Fridays come,
explosions are immense;
thirst insatiable;
smiles glued open;
and the night is so juicy that the bite is sloppy.

However,
when Sunday comes
the story changes;
the is ending warped;
the glue is now tacky
and the smile is cracked open with crusty residue.

When Monday comes
the stillness blooms;
the days now longer;
the nights now dryer.
When Monday comes
I pray for Tuesday
and then for Wednesday
 or at least I pray for a halt,
but then for speed.
When Monday comes
I make up my mind,
and then I change it on Thursday,
forgetting withdraws.

Friday returns,
and this poem infinitely loops.