Sunday's Blue Dress

He sits, unlit cigarette in mouth, piano music
in the background, the world on fast forward
and rewind. I found out how to slow down
time but not stop it. A few more hours
of this lifestyle and he might be able to figure
it out. Leave, he says. With me, leave reality.

Restless, he told me he can't sleep with reality
so the escape is songs, lyrics in his music,
drugs, talks, music, the girl and her figure.
He smiles at the transition road and presses forward,
past the time when we thought about it, hours
back, when our vulnerability emerged and fell down.

So many facades are forgot and we write down
what should be expected when we do seduce Reality.
Save all of the layers, he says. No one can see ours.
Listen to the notes, the individuality of music,
incomprehensible at moments until they come forward,
expertly put together, to make great sound figures.

With nights like this, I wish I could figure
out how to make this just a college game, only writing down
the score when desired. This way when we're forward
with the fantasies, they won't meet the unspoken reality
that draws together the blue and white music
during cerulean illicit, tempting hours.

It frustrating that there's only so many hours
to be a character, he says. Without facts and figures
and without the explanation of notes and music.
When the blue plate reflects my face, I stare it down,
the plastic sprinkles a white spark into my reality.
Only when he breathes in flurries, does the navy flash forward.

It shows the mutual veto breached, then forward
to alleged understanding, feeling and blissful hours
and all that could be in this altered, attempted reality
before it's decided to touch another figure
and the whole trial period comes failing down
and the memories are only welcomed by music.

The upside to the present reality, we figure, is that we can forward our lives to the hours when we crash down to hear other colors and watch the music.