“What
brings you here?”
“I just
lost, my Love.”
“I’m
sorry to hear that.”
“Why
are you sorry?”
“I
can see pain.”
“My name
is Glenn, and yours?”
“My
name is Henna.”
It was
late into a manic spell. I was walking up Melrose headed to the Beverly Center.
And at one of those random spaces, I met Henna.
She said
it quickly, upon meeting eye-contact, “You seem alive.”
I was
sudden into a moment, but hell was a neighbor, I had just lost my family.
I responded
with zeal, “I’m going through a daze.”
“Would
you like to sit down?” Henna asked.
I saw
redeeming features. Such pure gravity. Such matches and being kids and mother
isn’t home. So, I obliged.
We were
well into our miseries. But it didn’t matter. Because mania makes everything
beautiful. A thin line becomes embroidery. A sky is so close. And negation is
pure enemy.
“Are
you thirsty,” she said. I paused. Something was registering. But it took time
to validate.
“Yes,”
I said. Over sweet juice, we became sweet persons. She said, “I don’t usually
speak to strangers.” I paused again. and then spoke, “I think it’s harmless, at
times.” We smiled.
“I’m
headed to the Beverly Center. Would you like to come?” “In more ways than one,”
she said. “But let’s talk.”
I asked
about this person. As it turns out it was her girlfriend, and they always break
up and get back together again. I was clarity and poker-faced and I realized it
in her gaze. I cheered up. I asked if she wanted to call the girlfriend and
make up early. She grimaced, and said, “let her sweat.”
She wanted
my story. I was reluctant. But I finally gave in. “My story is quite simple: I
took an ecstasy pill, raised my voice, and took the food out of the freezer.”
She laughed. And I continued. “There is more, but this sets the tone.” “Where
is your lady,” she asked. I said, “she is with the baby, and probably a friend.”
“What type of friend,” she asked. “An intimate friend,” I said. “Are you angry,”
she asked. “I’m good and messed over,” I said.
We walked,
looking and touching and laughing and such banter or curse or voice and knowing
it could if we would but time would place us back to the one, we chase.
Time
was slipping into us. We were feathers
or wings or song with cadence.
Mania
is forbidden. But mania is excitement. While anything in mania is a false
impression. One yearns for that secluded person. But that person is tucked
away. We awaken looking for that person. But while mania lives, the gift is
eternity, and this delusion is, it will never live again.
Henna
interrupted my prose. “What’s so interesting in there?” she asked. “I was
thinking of this moment, or these distractions, while needing for something
unbelievable” I said.
Henna
got closer. I could feel heat-pressure. And we kissed. We were slow into it, as
if standing on stage, and then it intensified, where electricity was rapid
falls.
She nudged
me. She did it again. And then she said, “You aren’t asking!” I was lost for a
second, mania does this, but I was coming into hypomania. I responded, “Should
we get a space, if but for tonight, so we can die tomorrow?”
Her
eyes were warm. Her texture became flushed. And she said, “I live up the street
and up the block.”
We
mused upon flowers, she knew each one: prince’s feathers, alyssums, floss
flowers, cornflowers, monardas and others. We arrived at this mahogany house. The
front was haven-like. The inside was soft decoration. Upon entering, Henna
dropped her purse, gripped my jacket, and lead us into our sin.
We tugged
and fell and undressed and chuckled. We felt and moved and played and moaned. I
grabbed and died. She lived and ached. Such gyration. Such fluidity. Such cries
and laughs, as if a third-year anniversary—such intimate spaces such intimate
tasting. To bite and run. To filter and unveil. It was hypomania. It was not
real. But it was forming magnetism; and we worship magnetism; this frame in
visitation this pain in wandering while sitting and looking at something that
couldn’t be romance.
We sat
quietly, such intrusive silence, and then I spoke: “Are you alright?” She was
filled with emotion. Such a loss and then a craving and now this stranger. She
opened up: “I’m a wreck. My mind is everywhere. And here I sit with something
that feels right.”
Like
deep addiction, or skies that speak, or pain speaking to its lover, I tried to
respond: “We have touched, something has blossomed, into this room of mirrors.”
Henna was processing, our feelings were webbing, her eyes were wet.
“I
know it doesn’t last. And nothing unlocks what was meant to die,” she said.
