Sunday Night Spending Monday in Bed

I said today your room was the color of fall and I meant it. And you told me you decorated it mostly in the fall, mostly in that time between warm and cold, when you were changing your way back into the new york city life. I thought about you then, thought about you coming back, with a new boyfriend, with money in your pockets and with the will to dream yourself into another role, and take that next step to the stars you crave. But then there was that time we went to the planetarium and Whoopie Goldberg told us we were all made from the Big Bang, that maybe all of us had 2 or 3 teaspoons of original matter morphed into whatever in our bodies, and I thought, when I think about you, you already have the star inside. So I went to your show, and you were so lovely, so blue, so unlike you, so like all of the things we love to hate about high school theater, especially that scary moment when you don't know what you're doing and everyone is looking at you because you (I) forgot your (my) line and instead of making up for it, you (I) bend down and find another piece of cash to throw on the betting pile because you pulled out all of it and panicked instead of letting the scene go on. And that really happened. And then, in the darkness that gathered around the train as we sped home, I was confronted by all the worst parts of myself, all of the dreamy little lies I tell myself of how much better I am than I actually am, and I realized how much harder it is to actually be better than who I am, and how much I wanted to be because it meant you were a part of me, and I could come inside your room and sleep there. I did, later, when all the crying was done, and you, like a fountain in the rain, made beautiful music from the drops I littered around you. Your eyes changed colors then: at night they were red like your sheets and in the morning they were golden like leaves and when we were done showering, they turned green again, but with the gold in them still, like a wooden door in the side of a hill, leading somewhere comfortable and warm, like the color you want to paint your room when you re-decorate this fall. Then we joked on the train about me writing a poem about all the different colors your eyes go, and here it is, because I am a joke sometimes and I know you can laugh at me. But I wanted to write the poem anyway, because it meant something, because it was good and green and gold and red, like all the colors that remind me of you, and when I sit sometimes, alone in my inky blueness, in the darkness I have built around myself, just seeing you rains all of that away, and I love you because you remind so much of fall, of change, of all the dreamy things I want from my life, like soup on Sunday nights and traveling luck somewhere in the Scottish highlands, howling and laughing dog at the moon, drifting in and out of the sea like the tide, and because, deep-down, I know you would love nothing more than the truth. The truth is, I am lovely lost in my mind sometimes and the world seems nothing more than a passing shadow in front of my eyes. But what joy I can find is in the candle-lit warm water nights of September, of dancing and letting go beyond all letting go, and of poetry in an inescapable rehearsal room, coming so close to a world of perfection, of a dream realized that my body could do nothing but realize it and here we are. So you will paint your room the color of warmth and someday I will move all the way in and be there.