I don’t need chemical induction to get the high that follows this kind of instrumental low. People say I’ve lived many lives before, but maybe it’s just that the bass lines I’ve been attracted to shake free the skin cell dust wedged between and atop caving tiles lining my makeshift ceiling, talk about good vibrations.
When I lay on the floor and ogle up I can almost sense the invisible flecks descending into a mound around me. This particle must be from that musician, and this one from that artist, and those ones from that introspective individual, and now they’ve fallen onto and into me, amalgamating into a being with layers of others stacking onto the clothes I ‘d rather continue wearing than washing.
I’ve been sleeping with so many strangers, but having sex with none. Who knows by now what amount have fallen onto my bed, who share the same pillow as I do and wrap their McKibbin Loft lives past into the same threads that I so eagerly climb in with each night. I’ve got 358 days left to leave what I can of my own for the next tenant to roll around with.
Dear future occupant of apartment 1D,
Take care of 25 year old me, I’m leaving plenty of myself for you to enjoy.