I woke up and the sun was actually shining, the sun in my mind's window. The colors look bright again and the jazz plays free. Confessions.
I tell you that I've written poems about you. Poems that speak louder than my small voice. Poems that only mean things to me, I suppose. Poems. Poems. You promised me poems.
Waking up with bruises on my arms and legs and stomach. Those are always the best times, when you wake up and you have these bruises on you and they fade slowly from their blues and greens and yellows, slowly to let you hold on to those nights and you wake up and the sun is shining.
And you wake up. Smiles, miles, oceans full of blue eyes. Then those needles in your heart because you know, you just know- this isn't real and it's not nice and it's just something to do to pass the time.
And the time is moving at the speed of light. Slow it down with your thrust and slow it down with your hands inching themselves inside me. And slow it down just because you can.