They say that when you drink, you create a space to allow spirits to enter you. Blacking out is supposedly your soul leaving your body for something else to temporarily take over. That’s why we call some alcohol or drinks “spirits.” That’s why you don’t remember things that happen. The stress on the body causes your spirit to leave because it can’t handle what is happening to you. I wonder if this is what your lack of love did to me.
Drunk on skin I’ve felt lucky to kiss. The thought of its softness is intoxicating. I cry out, I moan, I beg for the mist to melt away. You inject your sweat into my pores. Hot anticipation. Who wants to be sober with an erotic illusion of love like this?
At the edge of ecstasy, our shadows wait to greet us. I’ll never forget the rotten day you left your mess on me, in a rush to leave, because your new life was waiting. And really, so was mine. Withdrawals sent me spiraling, spun out, unable to peel me off the bed where our souls wed.
Fog cleared. I could no longer ignore the devils in you I discovered, crawling in and out of the coils in your brain. I needed you to keep away to accept that our secret loving–deep in the dark–was the only drug that kept me suffering. Are we ever truly sober? Living in daydreams–various crafted realities–some escape is always lingering, taunting, teasing the back of my neck.
At times, when I felt helpless, I would have gladly accepted your demons, fighting between cleared skies and my sexiest alternate reality, even if mystified by you. Now, when I hear the knock on the door, it’s my own love I prefer far more. Your shackles I endured, but now they’re all yours.