You're the kind of monster that doesn't wait for the sheets to hit my skin, before you crawl out from under my bed. The circus red tips of the blossoms you spin are crushing and deadly and poison against the little pearls of wisdom you pretend. Listless in a sleep, purple hearts and softly weeping, baby breath against the truly white night, a little lonely only wandering then. I want to make you feel the pull. Tight little fists against your chest, but barely a thump to you. I'm kind of begging here, on my new knees, to be a something in your sleep that doesn't let you go.