Even the light is chemical on my skin. It burns me rouged; I move like I am on fire. Bodies around me, they are the music; we are the music; I throb to our bassline and dare not open my eyes. I have never seen this clearly.
The ashtray. Reefer reek, bleeding lipstick prostrate and ravished; haloed in ash. I chain, I breathe smoke: I am furnace; I am dragon.
I clutch at nothing and my hands grasp longing, vacant air instead. She is far away, her breath upon my collarbones. I offer them to her. I am rushing, I am rolling; I am the other side of human: emotion. I am the right way out at last; my heart pounding into the atmosphere, my veins tasting oxygen fresh from the nicotine smog. I am here. I am real. I close my eyes to look outwards, and I feel her as I fear her. I still burn.
She unwraps herself. I sway, a painted slash of tensed limbs and black cotton in her mirrors. My eyes are open doors; it is dark outside. She unwraps, she unveils and my knees are bruised in my ardour. She tastes like the gullet drip that still writhes through me; she wipes her clean from his cheekbones and with this intimacy, I lose myself yet again.
Water; cuts through stone, quenches thirst. I drown, lips open and gasping as his mouth parts soundlessly on my neck. I can only hear his touch. The water rustles around us; skin is watertight. I press harder. I am swollen in rapture as the dawn slides fingers down the window. I am falling.
We close the blinds and then I surrender; for once I do not dream, I only feel. His jaw scratches moans free from me and before my sobering metabolism returns me outside in, I find myself tattooed. Regret is never an emotion rooted in the present. Only the past.