fROM THE dESK OF THE pOET**

I'm embarrassed to admit this. The night before last I ate an excessive amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts. If you've ever had them you know that just one or two have enough toxic chemical dust sprinkled on them to make your mouth numb for several minutes. Well I got into a rhythm of eating one, then adding one to it, then another for three, then four, then five, then  six all the way to seven at one time. In that experiment alone I consumed no fewer than 26 Sour Chewy Sweetarts and even that was after having warmed up with several single helpings.

Sour Chewy Sweettarts were at one time marketed under the name  "Shockers". Let me tell you they should have respected the truth in advertising inherent with that label. The intensity of tartness conferred from all these ***** Wonka treats was remarkable and very well could have been the most face-squinching sourness I've experienced in my fifty-plus years.

The unfortunate downswing of these hijinks is that I developed a chemical burn that spread across the entirety of my tongue all the back to and including the area where my uvula hangs.

It's my own stupid fault. I could feel the chemicals eating through too many layers of cells long before the administration of candy pellets had reached four, even five-count multiples. By the time I had the seven pack ****** down to gel the burning was so bad I had to squint my eyes. The question that found priority amongst all that came to me at that moment was "how long is my mouth going to be so alternately sensitive and numb that I won't be able to eat my beloved jalapenos and spicy vittles?" A couple of days later and that answer still has not been found, although progress has been made to the point where I have faith it WILL indeed heal...you know how paranoid I can think sometimes, surely my mouth will never heal from THIS god forsaken self-inflicted injury, after all, I deserve it, hence the term "SELF inflicted". It's nothing but payback being it's usual self. If I never get to taste the wondrous seasonings of a well-mixed chili recipe cooked to perfection by someone who really knows how to make chili...if I never sigh with uninhibited satisfaction after downing a swig of Dr. Pepper or Miller's High Life or Guinness Stout...if I never again will be able to tell the difference between prime Angus beef and succulent Maine Lobster it is for good reason that I've been deprived of these tender mercies. It's because I knew when to stop and I kept on eating, though tears had begun to form.

No, it's more than that. It's because Universal Forces were all the while begging me, whispering in  my ears, "Stop! Stop! Enough! No more!" What would have happened if Joseph had ignored the Lord on that cool December night? Gabriel let Mary in on what was going down, what do you think would have happened if she'd gotten jealous of Joseph and disregarded the angel because he didn't have quite as much clout as her husband's Messenger? What would have happened? Nobody knows. But I know what would have happened if I'd heeded the advice of the benevolent spiritual  beings who were trying to warn me to lay off of the Sour Chewy Sweettarts. I wouldn't be sitting here typing on the hp laptop about how I got the chemical burn from hell.

But it seems like valuable lessons may be learned at every turn. So it is that with almost every experience I am resigned to also look at this one as the hard earned silver lining. Just what exactly have I learned? Well, first of all I've learned that it would probably be a good idea in the future to regulate severely the amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts (aka Shockers) I eat in one sitting. If I ever eat them again, If the emotional scars of the chemical burn will free me in my sweet tooth's cravings for Wonka Sugar to ever again opt for the sour stuff. I learned that eating Vlasic Kosher Dill Pickles with such a freshly de-sensitized/throbbing chemically-scorched tongue is a prospect that shares much in common with a full day of taste-testing ghost peppers. Only on a slightly smaller scale does the briny pickle juice pack it's own searing acidic punch.

Other lessons? Oh I'm sure I could fill a book with lessons this has taught me. Writing that book might be the most useful, benevolent gesture I ever offered my fellow man but I don't know if I can do it. But if I did, this would have to be the first couple of lines on the very fist page:

Make sure you're going to have a LOT of alone time the morning after.

But that's just plain good advice.

He bought these sweetart twist things at the movies last night.
He and I sat by each other and laughed at the movie we had to attend,
And I refrained from holding his hand or getting too close.
I thought it was sweet when he offered me a candy.
I took one from the bag, and electricity passed through my body when our fingers touch.
I doubt he noticed.
But, as I took a bite, I felt like I had to puke.
I looked around and wondered what would make me think of you right now.
He looks nor acts nor smells nothing like you.
What was it?
And then it hit me.
In my shaking hands I was holding sweetarts,
Which you absolutely loved.
While they may not have been the regular ones,
They still tasted like them and still somehow reminded me of you.
I tried to keep as calm as possible,
I couldn't let this ruin such a great night that I'd been having.
So, I finished off the candy,
And I made sure to not touch them again.

When I met you, I was unaware of what I was getting myself into.
You had always been just a point on a map,
eyes I have seen in the past.
Now, you are so much more.

You are chain-smoking menthols at midnight.
You are gripping of fingers and name calling.
You are lists of movies to watch and songs to listen to.
You are stolen sweaters and beanies,
beach trips to see your parents,
shots of ***** and Halloween Sweetarts.

As my breath rose in my chest,
you held me close and told me you weren’t going anywhere.
I can only hope you meant it because when I look at you,
I feel a whole new panic attack rising and it is
not because I am scared but
because all I want to do is kiss you
and remember what it is like to be alive.

My shower feels empty
without you pressing me up against the tiles.
I can’t kneel with the water dripping down my face
without thinking of the chance I got to look up at you
with droplets gathering on my eyelashes.
My bed is an insincere hug from a stranger
when you aren’t holding me to your chest and
tangling your legs in the sheets.

We are sitting next to each other
in a room full of people we call our friends
and you see all of them.
and even though our bodies are pressed together
you don’t see me.
I can only think you are trying to forget my features
in  hopes that I won’t be stuck in your mind.

And now you say we need to slow down
like these past two weeks of
gasping breaths and shaking hands resting on sweaty faces
never meant a thing to you.
Like sharing cigarettes and secrets
past midnight on my balcony
was just something you did with all the others.

Slowing down feels more like an excuse
for not being able to understand
where this began and how it will end.
I don’t care to know.
I only want to do this until it kills me
because your eyes save my life
every single time
so I know I will live forever.

I keep hoping you’ll walk through those doors
and hold onto me the way you did when I mattered more
than just a time waster and one worded text messages.
Than calling off dates and pretending like there isn’t something between us.

Tell all your friends
that you don’t look at me as if I grabbed the moon
and handed her to you.
That you didn’t feel something much bigger than both of us
when I leaned against you
and smiled as if nothing could hurt me.

Maybe, I am just another Icarus,
flying too close to the sun but
I’ll let it destroy my wings
if that means I can get a chance to feel
the warmth on my skin
for just a second more.