The Feminine Mystique of Erato at Midnight

How long are you going to be up for?

He writes pop culture sonnets and filigree minuets in my backyard. I find him there, raining empty words, but that only adds to me as a figment of his imagination. The more layers you have, the more fulfilled you are - this I believe. It isn’t my dream or my nightmare and I am not here to pass judgment. Merely to exist.

Five more minutes?

He did it again, clasped hands and wrists against my will while I popped grape bubble gum and thought of balancing my checkbook. His wardrobe had a floor length mirror and he wrote a sestina because I stood before it. It contained every word I'd ever said to him: six words of purity. If only he wasn't such an orphan and I didn't give everything.

Wake me up before ten?

My flurries of snow dissipate but he is still scraping around in the mud for clarity. We began a day together but he and I will finish it. Separation is now a cracked given. The yoke lands in his corner. I whipped my egg whites and ate omelets of emotion until my stomach rejected - something so neutral inside and so impervious to description that I cried until I forgot how.

Okay

When it started, we spoke in unison, two flat figures with static fog hanging from our cartoon lips. I was not a figment, I had hands and I was living in his head.

Goodnight.

When it ended, he sketched out my anatomy and I forgot to set the alarm that said breathe.

Goodbye.

A/N: First edit here we go.One thing: do the italics make sense or should I remove them? I'm going for more of a mythical feel at the moment and condensing down some of it. Again, any thoughts are much appreciated.