He thinks about me the most when he is in transit. Leaving one place, anticipating another. The future reshuffles ahead of him according to his beliefs that day, shimmering with potential, occasionally glitching. I reckon it is the only time he is alone. I dizzy him, irritate him. He feels me, like a sin in his stomach,  persisting with the patterned endurance of a heartbeat. Like uncovering something sacred when you had only survived in a cool sarcophagus of the profane.  

The air retracts with gusts of symbols, metaphors and implication. It heaves a sigh, in a language only him and I understand.  The worst angel, the good enemy, the domino effect. 

I hope the truth reaches him, in a pocketed moment, away from the lul and hum of frequencial weaponry and distraction. I hope it is soft to him, and generous. I hope it paints me in an alright light. 

Intimacy is like taking psychedelics. It is an altered state, changes the fabric of worlds, unstitches poorly mended wounds, and pries you open. It is a rollercoaster, a celestial melding, a catastrophe, a four part theater rendition of what your parents couldn't solve. It is arguably, safer, to do with someone simple, or vapid.