A Beast shakes me awake.

I am lying next to you,
and I watch your chest slowly
rise,
fall,
rise,
fall,
your soft breaths even
except for
the occasional sharp inhale;

A Beast  tilts my head the other way.

I am staring into empty space,
but soon enough my brain recreates
my cacophony of thoughts,
shredded wisps of what was and what
has yet to be.
A woman with honeysuckle skin
trails her finger along my jawline,
and I melt into her.
She is not you.

A Beast makes me look into your eyes.

You're awake now,
and your eyes glint with enigma;
They flicker with something unknown
before you look away.
You are not honeysuckle.
You are as sharp as each of your
pen strokes on paper,
crisp as a newly typed  narrative,
a Colossus of all that was
and all that has yet to be.

A Beast asks me if this is what I want.
He tells me he knows the answer.