There’s something about 6 AM.
Not the 6 AM where you groggily wake up,
stumbling your way to the coffee maker to finish a paper,
But the 6 AM where you’re still up,
because at 2 you decided to go swimming
and when you finally walked to his house at 4,
you stood in the middle of the street

and looked as far as you could
in either direction
just to see the lights change
for nobody.

When he took your hand
and led you down the slanted sidewalk
to his unmade bed,
the sky colored the window gray,
and didn’t tell you to go to sleep,
or wake up
for anything.

All there was left was
you and him and
your leftover tequila buzz.
And even the inhibitionless ***
lost its inhibitions.

It wasn’t a show for anybody.
It was pure. Raw.
The kind of *** you have with yourself.

You want to frame that moment
like it's a dream you had once
that stuck with you—
that turns your cheeks crimson,
when you catch his brown-eyed gaze.