My mouth is dry,
taunting me with the sticky memory
of that cherry flavored cough syrup
I chugged not an hour past.
Sore throat is gone.
That was the intent, was it not?
But that headache that replaced it…
Thoughts reel out of focus,
they don’t want to be tainted cherry red.
Room spinning, balance tipping,
- my subconscious wants to trip me.
This act has to be bashed
out of potential memory!
And only a fall up the stairs with a head on the rail
could wash my conscious pill-white clean
The pulse vibrating my skin,
even in those forgotten / ignored places:
bottom of the feet, back of the knee, fingertips especially,
it is the drum to which I dance
this cherry sweetened, quickened rhythm
that carries me so readily
away from that shallow walk
of, reputation, expectation, responsibility.
But now only the dance can claim me,
its touch, hot and promising.
With me, the perfect child; no …
I could never get burned