A decade after, I managed to see you
at the same time the frat guys convinced me
to slip a reinvented vein
of X down my throat. The spinning
white labeled floor made me feel like
I was floating over glass propellers.
There was a wide human circumference
cloistering an underdressed girl and me.

My talking was reduced to slurring and drooling,
but she was a foreigner, so that was okay,
as long as my tongue was slithering in her mouth
and my language remained
in signs. The music was loud,
though no one was really listening.
There was some shame amidst the laughter
and I felt glad, for lack of a better
word; in fact, for lack of feeling.

And then I saw you. The way
your facial muscles expressed deception
hasn’t changed with the years.
Your irises were like algae at the bottom of your tears;
tears which felt like a flood from the inside of a panic room.
You were the halo [most
hallucinogenic vision] of the night,
probably because you were the only
living thing inside those walls.

I received an unknown call
on my way to the comic book store.
The agelessness of your voice revived
a puppy love, and I
even may have said I loved you.

but… seriously? What does the guy
tripping over a Swedish mouth
know about anything –
above it all?