My weakness returns to this place that my head knows better not to where acting “orange” wasn’t a fantasy and I could skip class to get high and fuck our ideas into creativity. Where I sat on a kitchen counter and you gave me a margarita glass full of water and I wasn’t afraid when our skin touched. It wants to sit in the grass with those red hills that looked like mountains and pictures of our happiness, but I know better. I know those things don’t make up a life. They only make up a pleasure that longs to be refilled fuck after fuck and bowl after glass. I can’t return to that place of infatuation, grasping whatever makes me smile because now I know; it began to kill me slowly and it was this far from being pleasurable.