Intoxication

there seems to be a momentum to this that’s caught me off guard.

the start was so subtle
that I don’t recall the start,
she was only entering her eighteenth year
and should be distant in connection,
but the amber of conversation 
continues to glow;
on reflection:
the sobriety of reason dwindles 
from the lease of attraction. 

you could, say,
blame the sandwiches – 
the vector for which words were dealt,
at least initially,
our correspondence turned 21^st century
amidst a holiday break with messages digitally sent,
electronic bits like ping pong balls
batted between – 
until one day
she wrote about love:

“i drink it slowly, 
enjoying the sweet, fruity taste 
while looking at what's around me.
i can hear what must be animals 
or birds 
or insects, 
but i can't spot them.
i look up to the tops of the trees, 
but i can't see them 
for the sunlight. 
instead 
i look at the roots that surround the trunks, 
they stick up out of the ground. 
i'm bored of sitting.
i pour myself another glass of this sangria, 
stand up, 
and start jumping from root to root, 
going around and around the tree trunk. 
the sangria spills, 
so i put it back down by the pitcher, 
and go back to running around the tree, 
laughing,
red-faced from the air and the sangria. 
i go until i trip and almost fall.
out of breath, 
i go back to the sangria, 
pour another glass, and walk away.
i'm still a bit dizzy from running in circles, 
and possibly slightly tipsy from the sangria, 
so i don't walk in exactly a straight line.
i zigzag through the forest 
with the glass held loosely in my hand, 
a lot happier now
than before i took that break.”

I worry about the inertia here,
not unlike parents
when they’ll remind their license baring offspring
steering out the driveway|
(maybe for the first time):

“that car can be a weapon,
if it’s not driven properly.”

There are many,
many lives altered,
by a few bad seconds inside a car,
and I’m not sure I’m willing
to carry such weight
if the wrong things collide.

so let’s give this shit a name:
oblong paralysis,
like a unique squash vegetable
launched by its neck, careening –
a squash vegetable with dreams
of flight like a boomerang,
yet anyone would have their doubts here,
you silly piece of squash,
because you will not return –
I think that’s safe to assume –
because you’re a flying vegetable
of odd proportions,
you’re a paralympian and that’s courageous
but you can compete only so far.
we wait for the splat.

frequently asked questions:

why did I write this tonight?
out with friends her named was passed
coupled with another boy
and chemically my state was altered.
god damn.
this was news: not the boy, 
the juice that shot through.
there seems to be a momentum to this that’s caught me off guard.
I didn’t know that would happen
(it sort of felt nice),
but if I can’t trust what feeling will arise next,
then what can I trust about myself?
especially when next to her…
is this trite? have you heard this before?

god damn.