We were in a narrow entrance to a bar,
caught between two doors.
It was dimly lit, early in the evening.
You had your coat on and were ready to leave.
I don’t know who you were.
I just knew it was me,
clawing at your chest.
Begging,
desperately . . .
This was years ago.
But I still remember,
the dream.
And when I close my eyes I am there,
clinging to you.
You are tall because all I see is your t-shirt, and your open jacket.
I am crying,
for more,
just one more.
One more of whatever it is I am deprived of.
And you are refusing.
I am hysterical, out of control, I can’t think beyond my immediate need.
My body has overtaken my brain, or my brain my body.
All I see is you,
what you can do for me.
And what I will do for you,
if you give me what I need.
It is so long ago, and yet I can feel the angst in my gut.
It was then—or was it way before and this was just a confirmation—that I stopped judging.
Judging people with addictions.
Judging people who cannot stop the habit.
Judging whether they have a choice.
Choice is a luxury.
Accessible when you think straight.
When you can face life,
your life,
as is.
