Faint pink. That's the only color interpretation that comes to mind and the first one i see before i open my eyes every morning since we moved in. Since we caved ourselves inside this quaint little bungalow like grizzly bears.

Hibernating and marinating, we shared each others scent, cents, regrets and repents. Lented out love like dollar bills because we are homeless yet sheltered, somehow without a sugar-coated ceiling. Which is okay for us, for sometwos who revel in the occasional, sensual rain of our wooden cabin and the fragrant sunburn of its wick.

Day in and day out, we become ill just so we can give the shirts off our backs to wipe the sick from each other's bodies til we're nurished to health. Routinely follow every direction: lather, rinse, repeat, lather, rinse, repeat. Retreat.

Soon, through conditioning within the highs and lows of hiding away in our secret little bungalow remission, we'll inevitably realize that someday we'll have to make the final, unfavorable decision to light the match and liquor down our beds. Taking gulps with every pour.

We'll race out the door, down the deck, jump the fence and you'll hold my waist and slip the memory in the pocket of my back, yours the same. I'll rest my hands around your face, turn from the flames, engage in one last twine. We'll avert to part our seperate ways and wave 'cause we'll know that it's time.