IMOGENE- 

I love you so very much, from every corner and empty room of my heart that’s waiting to be filled with you.




We ran many circles during the course of what we were, each one it seems beginning and ending in my obsession with her.

Her voice or her smile, her tears, her touch, her taste, her oh…

I would spend all day basking in the memory of the way her mouth tasted, turning each tiny detail of it over and over in my own, tonguing every discrepancy in flavor. I’d roll it around like fine wine, savoring the taste of her, just to be surprised when I kissed her again that night.  Every time I’d coax her lips open the sheer fucking YES of it all overwhelmed me to the point I had to break contact. Maybe it was to regain some of my senses.  Maybe it was to catch my breath. Maybe it had something to do with the way she looked in that split second; lowered lashes and face in slight pursuit of mine, those lips pursed and flushed and full of excitement. Electric with it. Ripe and raw with the hot blood that rushed up to meet me. 

Yeah, I excited her. With the volumes of ‘what the fuck?’ I could write about how it all turned out, at least I had that. Obsession is dangerous, and danger is exciting, what can I say?

But me… I needed that touch that taste that feeling of her heartbeat pressed right up against mine, the only barrier between our two life forces being the fragile, stupid skin we had to contend with. The flimsy sheet of necessity standing in the way of us getting any closer.

I starved for her daily. I shook with the need of her. Too many seconds without her and I would collapse in defeat, a sunflower less the sun.

As soon as I met her I wanted her.  I knew that much.  I may have known her name, I don’t remember. I may have known where we were and what we talked about, but probably not.  What I knew was that face was going to be the absolute death of me, and that voice the sound I would die to. Happily, too. The noise she made with her curious little sighs resonated with my soul, a harmony of chords never before struck in the entire history of music.  Like an artist to his muse, I was inexplicably drawn to her.  I had to have her. 

And I did.

And I didn’t have her so much as take her, and I didn’t take her so much as possess her.  I wanted to melt myself into something so sweet she couldn’t help but lap it up and swallow it down, every last drop. I wanted to slip into her mouth and slide down her throat and fill every hollow space… in her thoughts and her dreams, in her past and her future. In her body. In her soul. I wanted to lodge myself securely in whatever part of her brain it was that made her her, to become engrained in everything she was and flush out everything I wasn’t.  I wanted to swim through her like platelets and go wherever I pleased.

And one day, I stopped answering the phone. Just like that.  Maybe I had too many open sores from letting her in, so I needed the new pain of healing them.  I honestly don’t know. To this day, every time a suture tears (there are many) and a hot red drop of blood escapes, I can feel the warmth of her fire. In fact, I rip them frequently, just to allow myself one little drop. Nobody could say I didn’t love that girl enough.  Nobody could say I didn’t want her enough.  I allowed to her to infect me, I cut into my veins and my heart so she could infiltrate me faster, I breathed her in so the sickly poison of her allure could expand in my lungs like smoke.  That love took everything I had, so now I lay day in and day out, very nearly comatose. Ripping sutures one at a time, to keep myself in limbo, that almost-gone-but-not-quite-yet state of total peace. A stitch, a drop, a self-regulated dose of morphine. A fraction of a milliliter of Imogene.

My Imogene.

I’ll always be addicted to her. I always have been, I see no reason to stop now. And when I want her so bad I think I might die, I find new and different ways to get high off her. 

Imogene, Imogene.

My beginning and my end.