It all started with a dare:
“I’ll have one if you will” we said
as one became three,
and that mundane evening gave way to giggles and kisses and shattering the night with a
hysterical pitch.

That’s bush-league debauchery for us now.
Hell, beer goes with cereal when you’re over here,
and every moment of it is hazy, skunky joy masked
with nicotine and Visine, the enablers which bring bubbling intoxication to our daily grasp.

There is an implied invincibility in our luck,
as we dodge close calls with authorities both legal and biological.
Now we chip away at a shared cache of pilfered psychoactives with clinical efficiency,
chemical hackers mining ever deeper into our consciousness.

We’re approaching a horizon now.
An irreversible line, drawn in stone which we may not cross
despite metaphysical temptations abounding.
This line is made of white powders, of sirens and gasping tears
the consequences its crossing carried all too well known.

Atop the precipice where clinical care and chaotic abandon meet, wind nips our faces.
Hesitating, we hold each other by the eyes a moment.
How far will you go with me into the cold?