We left our watches, left them on the nightstand, next to a half glass of water with a ring of condensation under it, sweating through the night. Some hours before, I crossed your fields, burned your crosses, dressed your burns, and ripped your dress, or at least I talked about it or maybe it was you doing the talking. You were beautiful and spiritual and endless and a fourth thing that I cannot describe or explain or now even recall. The images were fleeting, sexual and possibly in black and white, but mostly grey. The lights flickered on and off. By your hand, by your foot. In the moments after, I seemed confused but I felt that I was not. You looked at the clock but could not quite make out the hands across the room. The sun was going to come up soon or it had just gone down. The natural light was falling faintly across the ground outside your window. Later you were gone, writing, and I was finding myself where I was supposed to be. I looked at my watch, drank the water, and waited for you.