Stay here with me, in this place I’ve made from dust and broken pencils. Just lay with me in the spot next to me, right there; I made it just for you. Sit, but don’t think about anything; nothing at all.
If you must absolutely think of something, think about California. Think not about the sunshine or the water; just think of the dark corners that engulf my thoughts. Think of the endless possibilities for disappearing into the inky black of the night; or even better, imagine his apartment. While there are just as many dangerous corners to get trapped in, the bed looks oh so soft. Think about placing your drained, beautiful body upon that fortress of pillows, lovely, isn’t it? Personally, I would sit there and swim in the dizziness of existence; amused by my exodus to a place that I swore would never be a refugee within. I think I would sit and swirl and whisper his name endlessly until every letter lost meaning. Until all language became as lost as my mind. Until every word tasted like his name, tasted like him. But I think how he wouldn’t mind that I was crazy; he wouldn’t care, not even a little bit. He wouldn’t care because you can’t feel crazy, can’t touch it with your hands, can’t taste it with your tongue, or kiss it with your lips. You have to look at it with your eyes. But in the blackness of his apartment, in the shadow of my escape, in the darkness under the covers, grasping at anything we could feel we would both be blind to the person on the other side of the pair of hands grasping at each other’s imperfections.
So, if you must think of something, because you find it impossible to think of nothing, think of California, think of the night, think of bodily imperfections.