Vanity Fair.

10:30pm: We spent many days and nights together, getting to know each other, shared drinks and shared mouths and connecting.
"Your hair is like the color of straw in a Van Gogh painting."
I became wooed by the affections and the adoration. Things started to get more serious. His slightly drunken "I love you," probably forgotten, luckily, because I didn't quite know if I felt the same at the time. Then the painting was revealed: huge, almost life-sized bodies. Bodies pressed on top of each other, becoming one in the blurred lines of flesh on flesh tones.
"No one has to see this if you don't want them to."
"Oh, I don't mind. You can show it to whoever you want."
Lying in bed that night, my heart raced. I anticipated spilling out "I love you" now, letting the words drip from my tongue like moonshine.
"My heart is beating really fast."
"Why would it be doing that?"
"...I don't know."
A pregnant pause revealing awkward and tipsy confusion. Better left unsaid for now, to be revisited at a later, sobered date. Possibly never at all.

2:23am: The Quiet World
By Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she dosen't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

2:43am: a new start.