What are you thinking
At eight in the morning
When you sit there drinking
Your coffee and yawning?

Is it merely desire
To go back to sleep?
In the bed, by the fire,
Counting your sheep.

Do you think of me
And my unpainted face?
Is it my two sugar tea?
Or my empty bookcase?

Is it reflection of past
Or a fear of now?
Or how I always asked
When you never knew how?

What are you thinking
At eight in the evening
When you sit there drinking
Your red wine, not speaking?

Why can't I write when I'm not feeling sad?
My pen only cries when my heart is bleeding.
It's not like happy souls don't have a thing to say,
But it was ink that got me through those lonely, rainy days.

Why can't I write when I'm wearing a smile?
I can only do it with a tear upon my cheek.
It's not like broken souls have any more to say,
But it was ink that got me through those lonely, rainy days.

It's not like I'm not trying when I'm not crying.
It's not like I would rather be in pain.
It's just that I would like to write you something,
To thank you for those dreamy summer days.

It is more than family photos
Hanging on a wall.
It is much more than a garden,
Where as toddlers we may fall.
It is much more than a roof,
Standing over some red brick.
More than a place for us to shelter
Whenever we get sick.
It's more than flowers on a mantlepiece,
And endless cups of tea.
Home is not a place,
Home is letting me be me.

Scary yet essential.
I have forgotten how to do it.

This is fine.
This is just fine as long as it doesn't go in my hair.
My fringe is hanging down a little.
What if it goes in my fringe?
I can't adjust my hair now, it'll ruin the mood...
Just look ****.

Oh god, he's looking at me.
I can't make eye contact with him, it's too weird.
Maybe I should close my eyes and roll my head back and make some sort of moaning sound.
That's a thing isn't it?
That's a thing girls do in ****?
It probably is.

****. I am not a **** star.
This can't look hot.
I think I'll give a nervous giggle.
Maybe it'll sound ****.

Great, now he thinks you're laughing at his *****.

No he doesn't.
He knows you love his *****.
Well, as much as you can love a *****.
It does feel good, but they just don't look very attractive do they?
Especially not when they're thrusting in front of your face.

Stop it - focus.
Don't focus! Relax!
Be in the mood.

How long does this take?
He's using his hand, surely he's a pro at this.
Why is he taking so long?
It's probably only been thirty seconds.
I hope it's been longer, I'm running out of ****** expressions.
Maybe I should talk *****?
But what if it goes in my mouth while I'm trying to speak?

Oh, he's grunting.
This must be...

It's in my ******* fringe.

She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by
And never knew.

-Shel Silverstein.