Metaphor

A metaphor. That’s how I felt. How I was. The kind of union that isn’t a return but a correction to the ways things have always been. I danced to myself, my body the music; sweat the cords to a song, feet picking at the strings, voice screaming high over the heads of millions. Together. In the dense beehive of milk and honey. I could have used up eternity. I could have set fire to it and painted my skin in ash, decoration for this celebration. Of madness. Being here, in this twilight moment, raging at the dark. Of being human. The confusion of it. The pain and joy. We were metaphors. Breathing poetry. The heartbeat. A single, beating flesh of Here. Here I am. Here it is, all of me, for no one but me. Drunk off each other, our souls open bars, our lips tall glasses that never spill. I held a thirst for Life — not just the colors and flesh, but the cold, black expanse of the galaxies. I wanted to have it all. And it tasted like a metaphor. Twisted figure eight. And when the music stopped I was left with the flavors greased on my face. The table overturned where leftovers covered the floor. And you all slept, lying on top one another, exhausted, not knowing why but certain it was worth it. Worth the small death to be born again, so we can repeat it next year. And the year after. This union. This perfect metaphor…