6:17 (inspired by another post)

6:17?  Is that you? I'm not really sure where I am at the moment, and I don't want to lift my head from my pilllows as comforting as they are, but I have to know if that's you staring at me from across the room.  I crane my neck up.  Yes, it is you 6:17.  That means I'm back in my bed, body twisted and gnarled approximating a car wreck.  But I'm not really in a car wreck.  I didn't just drive my car off the road, plunging through sand and sagebrush, caroming off into a desert landscape.  My body thrown around the seat of the car, sand in my hair, grit in my mouth, rolling over until I embrace the steel body of my suddenly stopped car.  I didn't really run my tongue over my teeth and feel a tell tale wiggle.  I didn't worry it until the tooth popped loose, the first of many, teeth crumbling and sagging from my jaw.  None of that is real.  I run my tongue over my teeth for real, and everything is in place. 

I don't like seeing you 6:17.  But you're a much sweeter sight that what I saw before.