Dancing under the stars w/ the boy of my dreams

Truth is, I’ve never slow-danced with anyone, which is why I wanna be a bride. Sobbing & captivated as you stared into me & sang & played “Night & Day” on piano, then “The Sound of Silence” on guitar. I got real applepiemoonshine-drunk midway into an ‘instant love’-locked-gazes-pupils-dilated-48hrs-straight encounter & we couldn’t part/we never parted. We got real. Deep. Fast.    Thrust-fault eruption the logical progression.   Cavernicolous by my genetic default; my fate settled over me like the brain-buzz of being flogged down w/ nightstick —a God’s Flood of inhibitory neurotransmitters. Then sleep. Wake up. Realize. Coaxed, shoved back to the sleep haze by reality-terrors. Then awoke, TV static via intravenous infusion, running me through the roof. But this can’t be real. Suction portal back to bed-body. No. Then TV static hum becomes blackhole back through the roof. Traffic sparse in early hours on Green St. Must be real. Then further: up through the gaseous atmosphere, up & out & can see dissociated Earth & keep shooting up through blackness to stars. At that point I wasn’t even moving anymore; the blackness rushed past me as I was still. The blackness, nothing, lack thereof: boy of my dreams.