It’s only quarter past a pillow,
my eyes have yet to realise
that the moon has been unseated
by an encouraging sunrise.
Light needs time to make her real,
just as a dream needs time to fade.
It’s only quarter past the incline
of her protruding shoulder blades…
The thought of dragging stainless steel
across the wasteland of my face
is neurologically thwarted
by her reciprocal embrace,
my whiskers stubbornly symbolic
of the disorder in my head…
I contemplate taking a shower
but take advantages instead.
It’s nearly quarter to a smile.
Time waits for lips to comprehend
that she is more than just the bucking
of an intimidating trend,
a trend established without effort,
just like a random act of lust…
It’s almost quarter to perfection
…and I can still see her for dust.