Woodwork

The first time I ever dropped acid,
I saw my DNA intertwine
With the roses of the wallpaper
While sitting on the commode.

I lost myself in the pinstripes
Of dining room walls
Running infinitely, upward,
In binary code.

I died in the wooden paneling.
Reborn in the dark circles of white oak,
Opened and closed and opened again,
Like mouths swallowing themselves whole.

The 30-foot pines across the street
Were the synapses of my brain,
Lapping at the emerald pond water,
Strobing against the blank, aubergine sky.
My neurons, neon signs in the abyss.

8-bit deaths on the Nintendo-64
Induced a nauseating anxiety, and
I melted like a warm chocolate bar
Onto the faux-suede furniture,
Reduced to dilated pupils and contemplation.

We begged him not to open the door,
Panicked and told him it was a bad idea.
It was safer inside, but
I'm glad he didn't listen.

His absence stitched together our mind-spaces
With the same needle it pricked us with.
I could see our mutual thoughts
Inflating, floating, popping like soap bubbles.

When his energy left us,
The roof flew off of our mind
Like a windswept hat, and
He got lost in the woodwork, too.