-enter the void-

Do you remember when we watched
that movie about death and sex
and reincarnation? The lights above
my bed were low and purple
as were we, aliens together in the world
as the ketamine took us through fabric
and I put my head underneath
your crop top and tasted the metal
in your nipples and warmed it
with my mouth.

I forget how many times I heard you
say God's name or how many times
I wakened your breath as I knew you
again anew. Your eyes opened, closed,
and opened again at me, lights
in the purple night, satellites
finding me again.
The metal in your dimples winked
with your heart colored grin
until I needed it against mine.

Oblivion was us, swimming in the void.
How many times did we return,
I didn't know this was going to happen,
I recall you saying some time before
under a ceiling of red light
and how did I find you that first night
in the house of lights and fingers
and at not quite just the right time.
I remember you falling in love with me,
just a little bit and I had your eyes
in the gloves on my hand.

How do I get back to the place
only existing in memory. Recycled
reality calls me and I wonder
if I will see you again somewhere
for the first time.

ry downey is a pushcart prize nominated poet and lifelong resident of the pacific northwest. He has published two books, flowers leaning toward the sun and the dinosaurs are orange in seattle and is now in the stages of compiling his third. He likes trees, cats, clouds, and walking around finding different places to sit.