first rush

There’s this blue-grey twilight in the middle of the day, with the blinds closed and shards of light cutting across white walls. My thoughts are curling smoke, lazy dips and turns in a sluggish upward fashion, and it strikes me how easy it is to feel euphoric with the right combination of chemicals and connections. I’m an addict to these tiny triggers, a network of electricity across my skin that follows fingernail traces and shows me the shaking intensity of touch. There’s this beautiful exhaustion in my chest, and it’s everything I have to keep the rhythm of the rise and fall; it’s always jumping to another tempo, an entirely different song as my body winds in and out of you. My fingers are bending and straightening, tapping and turning and scratching and nervously cracking against kneecaps, sending Morse code messages of flight to my feet, but those sluggish thoughts keep curling in their drugged stupor, refusing to transmit urgency of any kind. I’m vaguely aware of this internal power struggle but couldn’t be less interested in anything that takes me away from tracing your chin with my shaking index finger. I am chasing these drug-induced delusions of grandeur like that first, great rush; I am recklessly discarding the present in pursuit of the future; I am watching decades appear as your eyes lovingly convince me they are real. The future is shaded in this blue-grey twilight.