August eleventh

As the purple pen made its final turn around the orange ridges, I began to see my old life slip away and a dream overtake it. My vision gradually blurred, and with my mind, I suddenly felt clarity. The white of the concrete floor took flight and before I could grasp what was happening, birds were flying. They twittered in the distance, like some sweet love song. As they flew, so did I. The metal leaves vibrated emerald, hanging on the wall which now breathed. The room, a concrete jungle, moist. The imperfections dripped and the paint sighed, telling me how she missed me. She whispered that I was safe. I touched her and then looked at him, sitting on the sofa with pink kaleidoscope glasses. His eyes were lopsided and his smile crooked. I laughed and so did he. An uncontrollable laughter, as if true happiness was dormant for centuries. He wrapped his legs around my head. Trembling, voices were too loud. The white pillar above me, murmuring, begging to be caressed. I couldn't focus on my creation and so my legs clumsily carried me to the corner of gray boxes.

A deep breath.

My lungs tingled with curiosity and so did my legs, and my limp arms. I felt like spaghetti. Melting to the ground I slithered, like a wet noodle, to the Turkish carpet, glowing red and orange. I asked the magic carpet to resist flight. I felt my skin. The dampness seeping from my pores was some concoction of sweat, saliva, tears, and snot. The juice of sacrifice and the cry of every bodily sensation. Open your legs, I want to see the books. When did I become an intellectual? David LaChapelle became too real and I grunted in misery.

My breasts surprised me every time I looked at my chest. How did my clothes disappear? They were ugly anyway, and thrown into the fire. I bowed and smelled the threads.

A deep breath.

I looked up to find smiling faces, and a Polaroid in her white hand. The red geometry pulsed and the image began to form a moment passed. What they saw of me was not what I felt. I saw myself and was myself. I made my way to the sofa and stared at the passing shadows outside, illuminated green and violet. Life continued.

A phone rang.

It was a distant call from the world I left, and I laughed how nothing mattered but the reality I was in now. The ground flowed beneath me, I lived in motion. Everything throbbed and blood filled the room. My heart soared and I cried as he kissed me. He licked my tears and Jim Morrison lit our fires. The vibrations of guitar strings plucked my veins. He continued to lick my tears and the saliva from the corners of my mouth as I stared at the rooftops change their shadows. The left window filled with ocean and the next windows of gradient sunlight.

I don't know where his breathing stopped and mine began, just one flesh. Mulholland Drive echoed between my ears as salt flowed underneath my eyelashes. The true emotion I felt for something unreal, but true enough for love. There was no temperature or sense of time, except the changing light and sweat on our brows. I was in a sweet and terrible dream of ecstasy where protection and deep adoration were only as real as breathing walls. The four lamps above inflated and deflated; my lungs expanded. Everything that moved in my organs became apparent in my world. I lived within and outside myself, dying to be loved and cherished, and to love and cherish, as much as the mind could allow.

As the sky turned yellow and the dream slowly disappeared, I began to live another, with him kissing the wet stains on my face.

30.

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