Jan. 06, 2004 @ 6:19 p.m.

The taste of salt from your skin reminds me to open my eyes, to remember that you are real. Thoughts are progressing past the point of no return, without a twelve-step program and several containers brimly filled with high-proof alcohol, chased with multiple doses of time. I now talk about you as if you’re a precious commodity, as if you’re something that I would like to hang around because you make life easier and more resourceful. The people in my life have started to notice a glow and they ask me, daily, where it came from. Even when I want to forget I’m asked to remember. Your small gestures, backed with pure, sweet intentions, make me think of you as if you’re some kind of preservative packed, tasty, sugar-adorned cookie; can I eat you yet? Just a nibble, I can’t afford to enjoy the whole thing all at once. Sugar high...