I often question if I can feel the ecstasy I used to know,
that old familiar rush that seeps through my skin.
Do I have to swallow those little numbers
(one through eight)
to make myself whole?
Only then do I fail to differentiate the warmth of my skin from the atmosphere.
And my heart pounds like a change in gravity.
My skin starts to inhale and a tidal wave crashes into my senses-
I’m disoriented and dazed and fulfilled momentarily,
so I’m lost in a cycle,
counting by eights.
Copyright © Morgan Tate | Year Posted 2013