prose poem?

I'm not sure what this is or what I'm doing with it. But it was just an "I don't feel like doing anything but write" type of late afternoon, so here is the first draft of a prose poem (at least I'm calling it a prose poem) I'm exploring/maybe will keep working on. Who knows?

The sun made sense to her. Little strokes of shadow and not shadow, here and not here, manageable pieces of real and not real. What confused her most was the color red. It was everywhere, all around, and yet she was not sure how or why.
The only red she remembered knowing was the color of that night when the sky was setting deeply and the pool water was so still. He had helped her over the fence and they were laughing so much. Everyone else put loud s’s and h’s together in fear of being caught. The exit sign glistened red in the still blue. Her cheeks, if you could have seen them in the dim light, were pink flushed sculptures of happy. There was music: the sound of the water parting as their skin made it stir, the quiet of cicadas in trees and whispered conversation, the breaking of blue and reentry into air. The red faded out of the sky and became black, and it was then that he put his hand on her hair and they kissed for the first time. The happy pieces of art exploded and, if you could have seen it in the dim light, a bigger than life smile made home on her face.
It was August Light then but not August Light now. It was Late December Light. This was a whole new character – it was cold-blooded and sharp and broke into pieces, highlighting things not to be seen or imagined. She hated it and wondered where it came from, who carried her to his den. She was overcome by him and she was dying by him.
But then again, Late December Light has illuminated their hands a few hours ago, tickled their fingers as they brushed together on the radio knob. It was this animal that played up the smooth of his face as she stole sideways glances while gliding down the highway. It was this beast that crawled through the sunroof, warming their shoulders that she felt were much too far apart because of center console. She squinted and stared it right in the eye, anticipating pulling into the driveway and him opening the car door, anticipating the way he’d smile at her and offer his hand in the old-fashioned way she adored, anticipating the good feeling that came from just being held and loved without words or wisdom of age. She closed her eyes and she let Late December Light lure her in. And now she thought only that things seemed more than shadow and not shadow, here and not here, real and not real. What was life and not life? What was sun, and what was light? Where was he?
The red again. It clung to her skin and to her hair, the hair he breathed in during that night of breaking in, of August Light and then not light. There was music: loud voices, a screaming woman, a screech of some sort of radio or walkie-talkie, crunchy steps, the insistent repetition of her name. . why not his? Late December Light put a spotlight on the dashboard and she found she was resting against it. Then he nudged her arm and she felt it limp and aching. He stung venom in her eyes and she noticed the highway they had been gliding on stood still and harsh outside the broken glass of window. She put loud s’s and h’s together in her mind, afraid to hear if he would come up from the blue stillness beside her, afraid of hearing no reentry into air.