You

this isn't about you.

but I've been asleep all these years.

Until I met you.

You with your minimal eye contact and that half-pout and the face I've never seen upset.  I'm sorry my words are deeper than my pupils even go, and you set your telescope on the ledge of them and looked straight into my head.

This is you looking inside my head and me ripping my scalp apart for you.

It sounds dangerous but it's actually quite healthy.

You you you you you you snuck into my room when I was strewn under downy sheets with hair covering the cold pillow and you slipped that alarm under my arm and waited for it to go off.

And it went off.

I'm awake now, I promise, but I'm still under the covers and the whites of my eyes haven't touched the sun and it's going to take all the time in the world for them to adjust (which is something we don't have).

Did you hear that? We don't have time. We don't have that.

I'm still in that half-dream, trying to adjust to the light as you pull the curtains apart and tell me to wake up.  And you're going to pounce on the bed and shake me awake but I've never seen the sun.

And you're the stranger that makes sense.

You're head is still in the other room where the other girl is falling asleep again.

Let her dream. Let her tired eyes rest, let her body recover.  She's been sleep deprived for too long and all I've known is the swirling catastrophe of my nightmares and I've never seen the sun.

I want to see the sun.

I'm awake now. Let's you and I go see the sun.