Lying in this casket of a bed with you
and you touch the blinds
and askew their lines
you know it bothers me

I grab your hand
and cradle it in mine
unsure if I want to make it mine

it is dark,
but not yet black
and your hair is naturally curly
but it is not black,
you tell me,
but dark, dark, dark brown
and your face seems to change
with each passing car’s lights
and my perception of you
seems to change
with each passing car’s lights

but, when we get up from bed,
and I walk you outside,
where the warm night stuns us,
I don’t know who you are
or where you’ve come from
or who I am
or where I’ve come from

and I do not know what to do
so I do not kiss you

I do not know
if I want you
or your dark, dark, dark brown, naturally curly hair,

and though you are no longer
metamorphosing with each car’s passing lights,
I let go of you,
and I let go of your hand