The Morning After

Hilton's cozy duvet hugged me as laid on my side wondering how to begin an expression short of periods, full of commas, layered with question marks, yet topped with exclamations. This Sunday served as the morning after, the morning after I tasted my own dessert. For the first time, I became engulfed in an unbelievable mouth-watering delivery that stole my words and colored me red. My security placed a comma to mask my reaction, but my heart couldn't portray it straight.

Absent of my strength, the chef noticed the beat skipping freely on the sidewalk of my descending aorta, so in an effort to erase the uncommonly and stabilize pressure, I smiled timidly and muffled, It was impeccable. (I know that was unexpected, but he was unexpected and his darn good dessert was unexpected, and now these butterflies are expecting, expecting me to feed them. )

The morning after entered the past, leaving crumbs so that the present would find its way back if I slept with denial, giving him the part of me I protect not. Hoping to forget how his eyes reached for words that belong to me, delicately experiencing my energy...I'm weak, exclamation mark...around him. My letters stumble downward, as unfamiliarity expends my reservoir...so what I typically say, isn't so typical anymore, leading me back to the morning before...before I let go.