Half past midnight, autumn

You knew I would still be awake, sitting up in bed with my laptop, the only light left on in the house. You: reader, critic, appreciator, lover. I cannot tell you exactly what time it is; I can't tell you the day or the month. It is autumn: there are fallen leaves going soggy in the gutter when I walk home. I bought black leather boots today ' that is how I will measure the time.

There is nothing to tell you except that I am not wearing makeup, and I am not beautiful. I am tired. I lost two games of solitaire in a row. My eyes ache.

It would be easier to begin tomorrow, you wouldn't have to see me like this, face lit up by the computer screen. The kiss I shared with the stranger in a dream last night has made my fictional lips ridiculously red. I am brazen. I am newborn. I am an old soul.

You dictate how I look, the precise colour of my hair and the whiteness of my teeth. I can tell you I am wearing glasses, but not exactly what time it is, nor the day, nor the month. My socks are pink. There is a blue dressing gown hanging on the right hook on the back of my door.

It's not a matter of scenery.
It's not seeing me here, tousled, red-eyed, a clean slate.
Whatever I tell you, it's not about my self-important words.
It's the fact that, inside, I'm dreaming of that scarlet kiss.