Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.

It raining out, the apartment is quiet and smells like fresh cut grass and cool summer air. I'm barefoot in my pajamas, my skin is fresh, and clean, my dreads are in a messy ball on my head. The sun has kissed my arms with freckles.

I'm waiting for my partner to get back from night off at the bar. He usually returns on fire with his recharged sense of self. He needs time separate from all the roles he plays here in his waking life.

I guess I do too, but for now I'll still be it all, because no one else in this house can.

Time to paint.