WHEN I SEE HIM by Abby Jean

Mar 29 ’16

When I see him.
With my third eye, my pineal.
In my internal vision.
In the surfacing of the depth of my imagination.
I see him.

When I see him…

Stomach tight.
Sparks running through every microscopic hair on my body.
Emerging high frequencies from my skin, tiny holes of escape.
Heart flapping wings.
Mind drag racing.
Mouth salivating.
Clit pulse, pulsing.
Vagina moistening.

When I see him.

Arms spread wide in the air like a bird.
Goofy smile.
Laughter.
My excitement disintegrates short term memories.
Moments lived mere minutes before my vision.
Emptiness suddenly surrounds me, with the exception of him.
Blurred streaks of colours swirl around me, fighting for my attention.

But when I see him…

Jackson Pollock.
Picasso.
Van Gogh.

When I see him…

Beethoven.
Miles Davis.
Teddy Pendergrass.
Miguel.

When I see him…

“Can you please get me a freight rate?”

My vision dissipates.
Poof! Like a genie wish in reverse.
I look over, facial expression exposing my disgust.
Disappointment in my lost vision.
“Do you fucking mind?”
Thoughts struggle not to manifest into words.

“Ya sure, no problem…” I smile.

I’ll get back to my mind affair later…
When I see him, again.

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