Untitled, unrequited

A perfectly sculpted nail drives itself deeply into my spine, injecting icy Bengay into the cartilage of my discs in bursts of I'm Not Really a Waitress crimson. 1:26 then 4:54 chime the clock in its persistent analogous state. Dripping with time, I lay in a red-hot half-slumber beside her, not knowing what is up and what is Earth, how to climb out of the avalanche of down that my hair succumbs to floating amongst. Blissful, she twists the hairs on my arm into a bowlful of rotini, so scrambled is my flesh that I all but die twice in one early morn.

7:06 and the clock turns to a digital pronunciation of departure, complete with hurried nylon snapping and panty divvying, coffee left to burn [like my hair on her bare chest] and wheat bread popped but not consumed.