Part One

Unfortunately, this is another tale that begins with me roving through the dirty asscrack of OkCupid, attempting to magnetize myself a creative muse to spit poetry back and forth with.

In this rare instance, I actually found one.

He was a poet…a dark and mysterious anarchopunk poet. His name was Paolo, and Mexico was the land of his people. It was 4am the first time we talked. I was sheathed in my beloved muse chrysalis. Which basically means…my head was underneath a blanket, I was naked and franctically pouring poetry out of my fingertips into my phone. We flattered each other with riddles, poked at the intangible borders of sanity and learned that the two of us had mutually deep wells of insightfully intoxicating, sparkly darkness. By 10am that morning came the first non-abstract string of words in the entire conversation.

“Can I meet you, Umi?”

10 hours later and we were sitting next to each other on a couch at an open mic, afraid to open the Pandora’s Box that floated between us. The open mic ended at midnight and we walked around the nearby ghetto barefoot, speaking Mexican Spanish and not trying to avoid the broken glass underfoot like badasses. Conversation flowed, and it quickly became darker than the shadows that followed us around under buzzing incandescent street lamps.

His collected, sexy shell cracked and as I carefully picked away the pieces, a story emerged from his soft-boiled center.

He had been alone one night, in a thick forest, with a thin razor blade and his never-ending self hatred. He butterflied open his booze-laden veins and watched as the darkness turned to light.

“Death is fucking uncomfortable.” He thought, being blinded by the brightest light there ever was. Someone tapped him, and his eyes opened to reveal the world he was trying to leave. He was in a hospital. Someone had found him and saved the life he was helplessly trying to abandon. His mother was crying hysterically from behind the other side of a thin wall and he deemed that he indeed died, and was now is Hell.

We were in my Subaru Impreza now, and as he was explaining how he’s on a journey, seeking a way to find love for this life again, my eyes were as big as the moon and welled up with the tears that he could no longer cry. I loved this human. This delicate creature, with his silky black mohawk falling out of a hair tie, his effortlessly deep brown eyes bored holes into me and realized that not all humans are shitty deep down inside. His lip quivered, and he stared at mine. Doubtlessly, he wanted to kiss this girl in front of him. He saw how compassion melted my heart, like it was chocolate in the sun when he began painting me this picture of what his insides looked like.

I turned on my car and began driving, speeding. I blasted music with the windows down and drove through stop signs. We didn’t look at one another and he didn’t ask where I was taking him.

At about 3am, we arrived at the beach. I parked and after gazing out into the endless ocean, we looked at each other and burst out laughing. As if a predetermined ritual we would perform together, we removed all of our clothes and walked directly into the dark liquid. In the black salty ink, tiny sparkles of phosphorescence glowed in our wake, wherever we moved.

You can’t be surrounded be warm, literally glowing ocean water, in the middle of the night, stark naked, with anyone and not fall in love. I declare it impossible. We swam quickly around each other in circles, with our hands clasped together, making a whirlpool. With locked eyes, we each threw a word into the whirlpool that described this moment.

Dripping. Astringent. Ancient. Electric. Kinesthetic. Almost. Dreamy. Creamy. Edible. Unforgettable.

It went on until our bodies were stolen of all their warmth and we washed up on the shore, buffed new and shiny by the sand. My skin turned to fragrant cream under the moonlight and he drew close to my cheek, as if to have just a taste. He lingered here, and in front of my eyes was a veil of dripping wet rivulets of his inky black hair…I wanted him to trace them all over me, writing this story in calligraphy. We almost kissed.

I drove him to a bus station at 5am, where he was to board a bus in the direction in which he came from.

Once I was home, I went back into my muse chrysalis, and touched and rubbed and caressed and loved my body everywhere it tingled with inspiration. The poetry of the night was streaming through my consciousness, orgasm shivered and gripped around paradoxes and riddles we invented.

Slumber casted it’s dreamy web over me and by the time I was untangled by it, it was already noon the next day.

“Umi, I fell asleep at the bus station and missed my bus…there’s not another one until tomorrow morning. I’m just going to get a hotel. Text me when you wake up, and come over.”

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