The first night was bliss.
The car smelled like make-up and stale perfume,
and my pulse was building in sync with my anticipation.
You weren't there, but I could tell it was a place you could belong to.
This was the kind of place where I want to be anonymous, loudly.
That is why I painted my face and covered my body in silk (barely).
I drank in the atmosphere like precious water in a barren desert.
I felt alive, every cell burning with energy and healing light;
He was there, an old wound still waiting patiently for a suture.
On fire, I grabbed a needle and made the first stitches, starting over.
I came home with the scents of the evening tangled in my hair.
I've never wanted to touch a cigarette, but I liked the way I smelled like they'd been touching me.
It was a brand-new happiness
And it lasted for days.
The second night was turmoil.
The car was warm,but static, like a foul green pond.
My anticipation was beginning to smell an awful lot like dread.
I felt like we'd entered the wrong dimension, the one where bad decisions get made repeatedly.
The aura of smoke turned my stomach and made me hungry for a change and violently ill, alternately.
I overcompensated for your melancholy and drove deeper your pain, clumsily, cruelly.
Your eyes were too clear and too sad to ignore, your suspicion palpable.
Who could blame you? You never saw the silk-fueled happiness on my face.
You only saw my face and his face, the image of those faces together.
This isn't the dimension where he takes my hand and we fall in love.
This is the dimension where I find an unlikely friend.
This is a wound in my heart.
And it will last for longer.
There will not be a third night, chronologically.
But the fourth night will bring an uneasy peace.
