Oh, the places I go.
The places I go are dark red wine, heavy on my tongue and slow in my veins. The places I go are dark as a lunar eclipse, nearly invisible and almost impossible to conjure afterwards. The places I go smell like bonfires and low tide, they smell like eucalyptus trees and Nag Champa incense, coconut oil and hand rolled cigarettes. In my mind I sometimes travel back to icy and bright afternoons, barely eighteen years old, walking on slippery cobblestone streets in MontrÃ©al. When I travel there I’m wearing the tattered bellbottoms I found in an old box of my mother’s. I’m wearing a long, black wool coat, prayer beads and pooka shells. I sink into my mattress, rocking slowly against the bed, shaking and quivering as I grind and grind. I go to these places by myself, clutching the images protectively against my chest. These places are mine entirely. My body I share, my intellect I share. These places are precious and will evaporate if I describe them out-loud.