fever-dream

about falling for you—cosmically, messing up (metabolically), throwing tea across the room, breaking in glass windows—just for the fun of it, scrapped kness, people watching me do things to you

I'm not even mad.
Any memory,
whether it has been marred by the blackness of you, who didn't care to cradle me when I exposed to you my infantile self,
my still-figuring-things-out hesitancy,
any memory with you is cherished.
Worshipped.
There is an hypnosis to the dance between the bitter-sweetness of us last night--enveloped,
encapsulated--verses us today--dislogded,
denatured--that mesmerises me.
That consumes me--rabidly.
Metabolically.
Last night was a fever-dream.
A spell.