Waking up explodes dreams, the pieces fall around us, outlining our bodies like chalk.

Pressed chest-to-back, arms around, fingers linked. Umber sheets.

Am I the only person in the world who believes in black bedding?

His jaw rests against my shoulder, breath blowing soft on my neck, light slicing through the blinds to stripe our skin.

How many times will I wake to this before it is over? Before he tells me that this, this isn't going to work. We've covered miles of streets, words exchanged over pavement, laughter under streetlights, kisses beneath awnings.

Restless wanderings through Hollywood.

Perfect beasts, shoulder to shoulder. Watching, heads turning slightly, monitoring, finding.

Alarms go off, we shift and roll, re-align the curvature of our bodies, tilting like windmills.

How many more mornings will we have?

How far off is that sign telling me that our road ends in three miles? In two? Counting down the steps we will take over the time we are allotted.

It sounds so melancholy, doesn't it? Already looking towards to the end of it all.

"It's a matter of self-preservation..."

But this isn't what it's about. This isn't what we are doing, what I am doing.

Whatever time is left is time in which I am able to square down and face demons, face the fractures inside of me.

Faith in a man.
Trust in a man.
Trust in myself.
Letting go of control.
Living in the moment.
Admitting weakness... ever.

And being willing to take that fall. Being willing to climb to the top of the highest cliff and jump.

Because if you're going to crash, do it right. We're not talking about broken limbs and internal bleeding, we're talking about falling and shattering into heart-bursting confetti.

A celebration of the plunge.


Break out the party hats and streamers, I'm ascending.