Depressing Stimulant

He smells like hot water.

I hear his fingers on my arm

I touch his voice

I see his breath

I taste the feeling he leaves me with:

Glowing reflections of city sunsets, and

To and under in Malibu

Every bit of my being slurred,

Blurred in blue, 

And up in nightly altitude

Where my mind is sparse and the air is thin

My mind is sparked, my mind is dim

His words gather on my skin.

Video, video, video

Pictures, playlists, poetry

Time turns twelve and one, to two and three.

And I could never get sick of him

I’ll gladly get sick by him

I’ll stay and turn pages if they are paper

I wonder how they feel between his fingers 

If the binding’s still thread, if it’s the same texture

I go blind for the touch of his punctures.