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White fur, red eyes—
I used to press a lever
And pretend that was my love.
But really, that addiction
Was a substitute, a fill-in
For a pair of hands
That came for me, Above.
They were warm, and whispered,
“I am sorry; this will pass.”
I was
high at the time,
though,
So I don't
remember much:
Just the softness of her breath
As she held me in that moment;
Just the peace I felt there,
Nestled in her touch.
Journal:
ReplyDelete"So I went on a date with Stephanie—KittenMitten84—today. Probably one of the best dates I've been on in, ever? Grabbed a breakfast bowl downtown, then went to hike up Romero Canyon...but ended up taking an overgrown service road instead. It was really pleasant. We found an old wooden bench and sat there for a while, talking about life and about her work in the lab with rats, studying addiction. At one point, she said, “They really like it, though,” referring to the rats being high—and actively seeking out more drugs. So of course I felt compelled to tell her about the 'Rat City' experiment, and how one researcher discovered that if you create a stimulating and social rat environment, they stop exhibiting compulsive addictive behavior—theory being because they now have healthy attachments in their environment, and so feel no desire to form attachments with unhealthy substitutes for love and contentment: e.g., drugs.
During the walk, I also mentioned that I write poems, and her immediate response was, “Will you write me a poem?!” And I said, “Of course I will,” but then let it slip from mind in the flurry of excitement after the date...until she texted me, at 4:58, “How's the writing going?” and a few flirty volleys thereafter, “How's that poem coming??” So I promptly grabbed some scratch paper, and at 5:17 sent her this. She replied, “That made me cry.” “You definitely have a beautiful way with words” And I responded, “Only when the right people pull them out of me. I take half-credit...” - 14 August 2016"