Psychedelia

I will always remember his eyes: the navy color with white flecks, like smashed blue marbles…the eyes that told me it all but said nothing.

For that enigma is what I miss most.

I’d like to think of him when it rains outside, cuddly haze rising off the baked sidewalks, warm and heavy. He’s not thinking of me, and that’s alright. There are times, right?

Times I set aside.

My smile makes him laugh and his smile makes me cry. We’re really happy together; we can’t stop laughing, we’ve gotta be stupid. Our emotions radiate and he understands. Sometimes naturally.

He doesn’t chase. He’s subtle. Passionate. Artistic. Perfect. I love him despite his addictions; he loves me despite mine, and my faults, and my own blatant self-criticisms. It never ceases to play out just right, and by now I have sunk deep into this indescribably torn affection and affliction. We’re both playing games, I can’t tell what he wants, this isn’t working.

My stars have shown me this light that can love each other, but things will never be the same as before. I can’t eat, the stars aren’t shining bright enough, the moon always hides, my pupils are clouded. I’d dilate them and force my fireball eyes to consume the truth, to blaze, but sometimes I’d rather pour vinegar in them and reside in bliss.

It will work. Before I sleep, I think of him and smile. When I’m not with him, things are different, and I am different. I can always relate. Identify. Things a different now from before and every other time. I don’t understand in some ways, and in others I understand completely.

But I have got to wait. I’ve got to feel him and see with my eyes closed. I’ve got to be careful; I can’t break my own heart again.

I drink sugary carbonated beverages, I take out the garbage. I pine for your eyes hours upon end. Holding it all down, I lie awake, staring at the fake plastic stars lining the ceiling above my head, listening to the same songs over and over again. The incense burns brighter with the passing hours in which I stare, smitten, driven by insomnia.

Yet I’m regurgitating. I’m replaying your name in my mind. Stop obsessing. Shut up and do what you’re told. You’re being ridiculous.

Put more sugar on top so it’ll taste better. Drown that boy right out of your mind. Never think of him; don’t speak him, breathe him, taste him; don’t live him, forget he exists; it’s for your own good, he’ll never love you anyway.

Ease the pain, candy-coat the pill; it’ll slide down easier. Don’t force it, rely on your senses but don’t be sensual, and maybe you can work this out.

You’ve gotten yourself into this big mess anyhow.

Just as the others, you’ve become obsessive and sensitive and neutral and neither; you’re disgusting. You’re a repeat offender, god dammit. You resolve yourself just in time to relapse into your selfish habits, into stellar lunacies of elusive grandeur.

You fall into imaginary scenes of passion, words in perfect timing, all pointless in the grand scheme of things.

Search for truth.

Truth trumps your fantasies. Just breathe. Focus. The fireflies will all disappear. The dusk-shade room and perfect silence will all flush down the toilet with your vomited-up disintegrations: your amusements, disappointments, your petty scenarios. And you’ll realize that your love was only imagined.

Like every other time, you’ll realize.

Slowly that pretty boy face etched in your mind will age like old cheese.