Kerouac Kids.

I get it. It’s a buzz, literally. It tingles in your knees first, which is odd considering they’re usually just used as cornerstones. Your very foundation begins to sizzle. It’s been so long since I felt my entire body all at once before. The sizzling in the cherry moon is the onomatopoeia accompanying your limb’s newfound jolts. It burns across your scalp and into your eye sockets next. With a heavy head bobbing, your tummy fills with a lovely, ethereal sickness. It’s all consuming. For me, that’s three drags of a cigarette.
A cigarette, with which I’m not looking to build a tolerance again. Three is a lucky number.
It doesn’t matter how many times I smoke. That’s always the outcome. Any more and I want to throw up.
The club around me revels in their outlandish, extraordinary tales. I sit and listen, but I’m not impressed or disappointed. I just want them to know they’re heard. I know my place, and I keep my opinions to myself. I don’t tell them how I feel, because no one wants to hear how someone’s knees feel at the moment. They’re not interested in joints unless they’re lit. But, I get it.

Kerouac Kids.

Sunset.

I took down my hair and flew through the yellow lights. Each intersection had a woman on the corner, waiting for their chance to move. I flew to you.
Later, I ate with you but looked at the sky alone, with a quiet and sole interpretation.
I asked, “I wonder how many times we’ve looked at a sky, called it beautiful, and then completely forgotten it?” I asked.
You said. “All I heard was ‘completely forgotten’,” you said.
Grinning, I explained why that fleeting moment was ironic.
In that moment, we were the sky.

Sunset.