I’m thinking about you.
In the black of night the warmth if my bed the sheets are heavy on me the cat motions and I can feel her shape in the negative space.
It’s raining the sound in a lovely veil of peuter velvet in an indigo night, like a dull shuffle of unhappy guests applauding on the wet, spirited crackles break the white-noise of rain on suburban roofs.
I’m thinking of you.
I’m thinking of you and I should be asleep because tomorrow I have to be formal for the most important piece of importance ever. The rest is all bullshit.
I’m thinking of you because you are making more sense to me now, more then anyone has done in a long time.
I’m thinking of you because I want you to stay for a meal that will go on a time indulgent exploration of courses in adventure and revelation.
Your existence just woke me up I’m aware of the now, and the owner wants to prop you up in his car and drive you away in an ill fitting garment in-leu of a costume for a play that folds you into the crevasses of something that they want you to be.
I have to future for you, I have no master plan, I have nothing to offer but what I am now and have been up until this point.
You woke me up and now I want you.
And I’m still thinking about you.