It's Eleven

It’s 11............. But damn, I wish it were 7.
Wish I could freeze time, make it stand still, so that I could hold on to this thrill
For just a little while longer.
This thrill of seeing you in my head, erotic visions of wrestling matches in my bed,
The intensity of you pulling, pushing, the ripping of threads,
Colors bursting in purity-- hot golds, pure whites -
Steamy reds.
Instead—
Sadness smacks me in the face; another night misled.
Because I know once my head hits that pillow,
The night will be eerily still, though.
And sleep will succumb me, erasing all beautiful visions of purity,
Replaced by nightmares, blank stares, empty air.
I will lose you all over again.
I’ll be awakened to momentary amnesia,
A moment of peace before I’m riddled with seizures,
At the mere thought of facing another empty space in my day.
(Why aren’t you here?)
You know, someone once said the morning is the worse,
That fucking a.m. curse, to realize this will be another day where
Fantasies of you will replay...replay...and replay....
Incessantly.
And I’ll feel it’s necessary,
To keep hope alive.
That maybe you’re dreading 11, hoping for 7, too, and missing my lips,
And craving to be up under my hips.
Ah, shit, who am I kidding?
If you wanted to be here--you would,
If you wanted to be here, you could; I’d let you come back,
My door is open like the 7-11.
In the meantime, it’s 11…..not 7.
And I’m tired, and my bed is moaning, calling.
Time to release; no more stalling.

February 16, 2011