After 90 mg, pink lights emit heat
with a sporadic effulgence only fireflies can compete with.
My shirt has become a sequined straightjacket
only fit for the floor to wear.
We stand side to side holding our pupils
like a handful of marbles.
Every social jet-lag like seamless method acting,
Every sweaty hug a confetti bomb, an orgasm.
Pinky swear this 30 minutes will last forever.
I want to touch everybody, but mostly you,
like I would touch a velvet curtain.
I would maybe even rub my face
on the pig-tailed black pupiled boy who is dressed
like he was manufactured in a Mattel warehouse.
You can live to be 100 years old if you give up
all the things that make you want to live that long.
If I threw a bouquet of carnations into the air,
how would I know it would give you a black eye?
The flowers expose themselves as lithium in your hands,
and you suddenly realize heaven and hell
are under the same disco ball.
Blame it on the boogie, blame it on the $20 cover charge,
blame it on swallowing and saying yes.
I wake up with thirst for mineral water,
thirst for touch,
with dinner plans with an insurance salesman
two years from now.
Your comedown was only two days.
I want another 90 mg.
I want another you.