Mountains

Mountains

I got secondhand high once
at a rock concert in Chicago.
The smoke smelled like bacon,
the good kind you get at fancy restaurants.

It wasn't the only time I'd been unknowingly high.

You told me once that my smile was
the bulb of Spring, the light you needed to continue.
I told you to fuck off.

Now instead of getting high off of your compliments
and silly remarks, the only high I get is at 30,000 feet.
Above Colorado, thinking about us.

These mountains are the crinkled fabric draped
over the curves of our calves, our cautious minds
too curious to care about the repercussions of our actions.

I took a scalding shower and burned myself
of any thoughts of you, but now I'm
stuck with scratch marks left from the sponge
I used to scrape your name off of my skin,
your touch off of my stupid, stupid decisions.

I don't know what's worse: the heat of the moment
or the water running cold.

Cold. You are the feeling in the pit of my stomach
that won't settle unless it becomes warmed by the
touch of my own hand because yours has become
too cold to get the job done.

Snow capped ocean views, white tips that
remind me of your knuckles when I would say something
arguable to set you off. I hated your need to be right.

Now it's all I have left.

Crop circles and clouded memories,
our pettiness was the crème de le crème.

Ups and downs, plateaus of happiness
pressed our minds into pleasing things
not meant to be pleasant.

Like the smell of bacon at a rock concert.

Because when I smell bacon, I think
of that time I got secondhand high and my
mind will drift to you: to whatever it was
that we had.

You, you and your cold hands that
once were warm enough to wield
unwanted, unfamiliar emotions, are
the only thing holding me together.

I'm not one for drugs,
but I would give anything to get
high off of you one last time--
even if you smelled like bacon.
You never did, but I love you enough
to pretend not to notice.