I sat, disheveled, at the laminate table,
As I thumped the meter
Of The Funeral March
On Premium Dixie ware with a plastic spoon,
Unaware of the charcoal staining my teeth
Or the black residue
—Evidence of their efforts—
That had settled in the crevices
Of my raw, cracked lips.
Neurons struggled to repair themselves,
Refusing to accept that
Time was their friend;
The few surviving nerves
Tried to catch disoriented impulses
Before they lost their way,
--And their message,
In the toxic levels
Of an over-dosed body.
I saw your ravaged face,
Your eyes a mixture of fear and anger.
Heard the sincerity of your shaking voice,
Registered your desire
To shake me to consciousness,
To hold me accountable—
Or, maybe, just to shake me,
And hold yourself
Unaccountable.
It was important
That I believed
That you believed
What you were saying.
Through the fog of that dance we do,
Where your last step leaves
Heel marks on my heart.
I felt the warm glow of
A lighthouse beam that promised
Another day.
Despite your close proximity,
There was no pain.
No raw nerves, no open wounds.
No bleeding heart; no broken soul.
I didn't hurt.
Just floating…
…Floating…
Floating…
Body weightless, face just above water,
Wrapped in a saline blanket
Of drug-induced invincibility.
Lucid but drifting—
Just lovely, lazy, languid...
Languid, lazy, lovely...
Effortless drifting.
