Over video chat, Alicia stripped nude.
Endorphins drowned insecurity,
suppressing my alter-ego
and cementing our lust into a crescendo
of tiny voices, telling me the crazy part
of her is my medicine.
Alicia’s gaze wrinkled the sides
of my mouth to a seductive grin,
marring my confidence
with selective reflection.
With but lint in my pocket,
I cashed a hot check,
stole a banker’s car,
and headed for the west coast.
I had plans that blurred the lines.
Plans that included revising misunderstandings.
Plans of giving Alicia the best of me;
whatever the fuck that means.
I lost my footing, balancing
love and fear over a beam
of quicksand with only one,
one who’s stayed the same.
I left Alicia’s happy pills on the kitchen
counter, but the white tablets remained
untouched.
A genie escaped the bottle with overacting skills,
marking my words with selective verbs
to avoid dramatically vague adverbs
that told the story of a bell that
rang when she arrived at my door.
I was freaking out because the things
we left at the last home are out
of our hand.
I lived to talk about it.
At least she had her health.
If I weren’t in love, I’d be hunting for love
and well, I’d be gasping for air because it wasn’t
fair that he got to be with her.
I’d miss her until it hurt.
But I made up for nights I slept away
as days dragged memories along the edge of revised history.
The door opened to Alicia’s surprise,
I stood with a confident smile.
“You’re my guilty pleasure,” Alicia said.
I embraced her chin with my hand and gave her a kinetic gaze. “You’re my medicine.”

Twitter – @AC0040

(© 2023 AC)

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