Warm slumber, the stereotypical Autumn cocoon that us mammals wrap around ourselves mid-sleep.
As if still instinctively bracing for another harsh Winter.
The memory takes shape in dream,
The dream takes shape in hope,
As sharp to me as iron splinter.
I finish kissing her and wake up.
Next to me she freaks the hell out of me,
She's already awake staring at me..
Not inches from my face.
'Eyes like thunder', I repeated from a line I'd heard somewhere before.
But the shock isn't enough to make my eyelids fully lift.
Again. I drift.
This time no dream,
Just a fuggin' sharp poke in the ribs.
A spark of lightning through nerves.
Still there she is.
A faded warmth, an echo,
The shape remains, like my lump two-fold.
Enough to feel, but not to hold.
'You have to get up'.
'I know', I reply.
I can't think of a damned good reason why, at 5am in the fucking morning.
There's no reasoning, just obedience to schedule.
I look at my other clock,
It died at midnight.
What I'd give to live in that moment,
5 hours ago you were there.
You'd be slipping off to sleep.. well,
If the thunder didn't keep you up.
The storm was violent,
As was my temper.
Goddamn my temper.
But you've no time for words,
And I've no gift for them.
You could probably read it in my tired eyes.
Can't I just chase my dreams, one more time?
A head shakes no and leaves up the hall to take a shower.
Where, as I eat my breakfast,
She spends the best part of a bloody hour.
'The shower's a good place for thinking' she says,
She must have cured half the worlds ills by now in that secret place.
You love 'em, you h.. love 'em.
She sits at the table in a flourescent pink towel,
As if her nakedness alone wouldn't be enough to blind me.
She has to make sure.
I head up,
And though she may take her time,
I'm always glad she's had hers before mine..
I fuggin love the smell in there when she's done,
Floral, fruity and fresh, from whatever she puts in her hair.
When I've finished up
It smells like a fucking trolls' lair.
I come down, buttering a slice of toast for the road,
It seems she's not eating -
And suddenly her look makes my insides cold.
'You're wasting away' I whisper hoarsely, unable to shout,
Not just thinning away, but truly fading out.
I pick up my sketchpad and quickly take hold of my beloved 4B.
It's madness, but with a little time and graphite..
It's possible she won't slip out of sight.
I have to save her, I have to keep her breathing.
She'll come back to me.
It has to be.
'Sit still' I ask, 'don't strain'
Still thunder in her eyes,
But her inevitable reflection shows
On my cheek, rain.
I sketch her fine features,
And those less fine;
And that's all that remains
In five hours time.
The last hyena laughing, is the Lion's first kill.