Panic Ensues

It was a new face, this time. A still-life of Timmy. His big-lipped, sheepish smile grinned through a pair of liprings, and his eyes are gorgeous. The one thing enviable of drug addicts are those childish eyes clouded over with suffering, even when the rest of the face is smiling. Like a kid with a cigarette. Give me attention. I don't even know half of what he went to rehab for, I guess he lost interest in me.

It's hard to shake the dream, even knowing what comes next, and being in a sort of midpoint between sleeping and wanting to cry. It's more beautiful than memory could ever make it, sitting on his couch downing a six pack of coke and watching blockbuster films all night. That was months ago. But it's enamoring, to see a face you miss. This part of the dream is always intoxicating: Reach out and touch him.

A hand touches the fabric of a bedsheet, something solid and palpable, and the face pulls away. I bubble over with a sense of dread as the feeling onsets.

PANIC.OHSHT.I WANT TO KISS YOUTHERE IS NO HEAVENDO YOU WANT ME THERE WITH YOU?

I'm wide-eyed and breathing hard, smothered into a pillow. Tears stream down and drip on the covers, on my hands, trying to find the words to press keys into the computer, fumbling with the end of a pencil as it burns off the skin and leaves stripes of raw and bloody tissue. There's no one to hold onto but the pillow and cold, sweaty sheets. I wish I could tell you in words. What it is to dream to death.

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This kind of... sucks. D: But it's a brief insight into the nightmares I have. It's very emotionally loaded on a personal level, not really the writing quality, but the emotions connected with it. I'm hoping that somehow I conveyed that.