Chlorinated Kisses

They don't dream. That's for sure. They actually never had a chance, sterile the moment they were released into the real world. And then in one moment, pure joy, and in the next -- agony. That which I, myself, had sworn off of. Joyagaony. The worst drug on the market. So high one moment, so depressed the next. Get me out of this mess is all your drunken mind can mutter.

And yet still craving more. Even knowing the highs may get higher but the lows just get lower. Crocodile tears falling, falling falling. And the abyss opens up and swallows me just as Absolut Apeach falls down my throat in one swift swallow.

One margarita later, I'm standing at the gate of non-memory, and it feels so good that I can sigh in blessed relief, until the next hour as Joyagony hits again. I guess you can't always be up, not always. Only sometimes.

And with that in mind, you push aside the thoughts and bury the memories. Bury them where they are barely on the radar. Because if it wasn't real, it's easier to move past. And if you can move past it, then it wasn't real.

Kisses don't dream. And that's why.