LP for W (1)

I take pictures of bar lights, long after dark.
you nicknamed me neon, and
if poems were like paintings, I would write us
oversaturated. brilliant red mouth and
(I can only give you as much sex as I know.)
when your eyes change from aqua to
midnight and I know the spectrum and the
dark of your profile against the grey of the sheets
and the light is weak, demanding yellow when it
comes in, then
this is a love poem. because
this day blurs into the next, in the dead hours of
four o'clock when I am
master of the pitch black shade,
i spend a lot of time buzzing,
overstimulated and flashing,
dreaming in your shadows
behind my open eyes.