1:25 AM. The sky exhales ropy clouds. The mountains rage softly in their pearly cloaks. I tip my head back and all of a sudden his lips are on mine. His smile is the color of electric blue nail polish and Aerosmith CDs. He thinks I am beautiful and I think I am ordinary. We drink to blue dahlias and Eskimo kisses. It's Friday night I'm in love. Now we are running. We are in a dirty gray pickup truck that wheezes and whoops clouds of cauliflower. He smells like rain and midnight meteor showers and peppermint soap. He thinks I am tired and offers his shoulder. While I sleep he pitches me to the stars and they dye my fingertips purple. It's Friday night I'm in love. We are underwater. Everything is alive. The moon, the color of milk, washes over us like flames dripping into a thick pool of wax. His eyes are everywhere like broken glass spinning in a kaleidoscope. He thinks I am asleep and tries to talk with God. I listen quietly. He cries alabaster tears and chuckles to himself. A broken keyboard sings a song of sadness. It's Friday night I'm in love. Tonight I lie here alone. Red lips and tiny shoes and soft dirt. The fog seems thicker here. The trees seem whiter. The sky churns with the eyes of a hundred flaming coils. He thinks I have forgotten and drowns Memory in a viscous oil of affliction. I close my eyes and imagine lips flickering under the moonlight, lips which do not speak but tell me a story of dreams and sprightly love and slippery fingertips, nothing but cool palms weeping in the wind. 1:29 AM. The sky sputters quietly in its charcoal tomb. I tip my head back and the stars bend to kiss me good night. It's not the same. I think he is beautiful and close my eyes. He is with me for a second. It's Friday night.