Morning Murder.

When senses fail, and the lights go off. And the stars will send their spears down, to colour the ink black sky their crayon-box-pastel colours. We'll swim in the nightshone shadow of a lake, feel the frailness of the water against bare skin. That's when I'll sit on a rock and fall in love with you. This vague character of a little boy who talks too much. Exhuberant when I'm glad like a bee, astonished when you kiss me. We'll sit on the grass bank and wait. Watching. For when the drizzle of yellow feels it's way to the top of the world.