A Return from Orange to Blue

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.

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