Geometry for Opiates

It's the afterwards I always worry about. Not whether we'll remember. But will we want to.

Throwing ourselves into that kiln. Nervously anticipating the shapes we'll end up being.

It's not my art. It's just my life. But sometimes I can't tell the difference. Pulling the paper closer to my pencil. I'm not sure if I've forgotten how to draw or refuse to remember.

I wasn't wrong. It was a question not an answer. Giving lap dances to tomorrow to see how well it would tip. I profited. What I lost in dignity I gained in cynicism. I prefer to think it was mutual.

There are stores where the prices is the price. The cornerstone of reality. No negotiating. Just tags on everything. An amount that must be sacrificed to leave with more than you came in with.

And the there are others. Where the price magically goes down if you're only brave enough to ask. Everything is cheaper the less that you want it. Pull down their underwear. Map the dimples above their asses. There are jackals in every moment of pleasure. Looking for the weakest. Everything you feel someone else's dinner.

Sometimes I'm big. The moment so small I feel like a giant. Because they gave that to me. In heroin stares. In cocaine sex. And I am content to be their drug. For however long the high is generous. The coming down only a factor in an equation I could never hope to solve.

Sometimes I'm so big. And they're so small. Those moments, the mumbles of vinyl as it spins without the aid of the amplifier. The faintest whisper of something so much larger. Convincing me I'm high enough to see everything.

Whatever drug we are. Or were to each other. It's the sober of us I remember when I'm small.