As I lay

The paint is imperfect on the sealing.  One blanket covers the crumbled crumbs that lay with hairs of cats and people in the seams of the pull out coach.  The bed is made for two.  Tails of stories are told with the grips of fresh brewed coffee keeping them and us awake.  The staying awake was much needed a different character of that person came fully pure, in that moment in time.  Now a story was being explained as a mist, a distilled moment in time, that would need forty-five minutes for the story to flourish but it would be remarked as a echo, “…this is me stoned.”  The night carries on with cracks and cackles of two talking through the night, it’s almost as if there playing telephone but they are laying next to one another. 

The sun rises with the date of a new year.  The paint is imperfect; it might be the posture of me lying crooked with a pillow beneath half my neck and shoulder. Then again paint can’t always be perfect.  The colors that come through the blinds are of a spectrum of whites, warm-yellows, and blues that mimic sky blue landscape.  Outside changing supplely because of the early morning tide. The blinds make soft hard lines across the space as if they were mountains and I lay low like valley.  What follows through the blinds besides blocked out space are tonal colors of sienna yellow, warm ambers, woody browns, yellows that should piecing but are soothing.  The colors that I saw would be worth a picture but in that moment I found it all in her hair and skin.  Her hair changes to the light that it is given at, so do her eyes but in this moment it was a form that I didn’t realize I could take all for myself and carrie with me now.