somewhere I used to be

music as a marker of time. depression as cyclical. cigarettes after sex as a reminder.

I’m anywhere but reality. in reality, I'm listening to Cigarettes After Sex in a dark room, the light not trying hard enough to get through the blinds. I’m listening to Cigarettes After Sex but, this time, I’m not in my shadowed car, speakers up and knees tucked into my chest as I hold myself on the misty rooftop. I’m not there anymore. but the soft, sleepy music coats my vision again, beautiful like glassy eyes of someone you once loved, staring into the distance. my heartbeat slows to the music, but I’m not pressing on the gas to the La Jolla shores and rolling down the windows to feel something, just to cry as I watch the bonfires fade into nothing, and the stars too. I’m not there anymore. the oud oil, blowing into my room like a whispered breath, tricks my nose and, in my mind, I’m on a forest floor breathing in the brown. I’m on the back of a horse in a desert, staring straight into the sun as cherry red light spills across the sky. I’m back on the night beach as the fog cries more than I. a world of mist and longing, of shy, sweet earthy oils and nothing but reflection. a world where the heart cracks open at the beginning touch of the sound, where the liquid silver of emotion pushes me to where I must go. again, not reality.