There is a lazy kind of awareness as the syringe pierces my
skin like a pebble thrown into water.
Ripples of discomfort and euphoria flow through my fingers,
and you rest your head on my shoulder, watch the vessels contract, life-giving
conduits shying away from the sudden intrusion with equal parts curiosity and
fear. I feel the pressure of your lips as you smile into the fabric of my
shirt, a mess of mumbled words ratting your hair with infatuation and desire,
bearing witness to our steady chemical metronome.
Cellular soldiers rush to close the breach, but our enemy
has long since vanished, slipping through the crowded capillary streets. My
ventricles are flung open, floating like kites, suspended, catching the breeze
from your carelessly thrown kiss and trapping its essence like powder in my
nostrils, stale and chemical, rife with dangerous potential.
The vessel swells, and the clot begins to form.
