Fly Me To The Moon

I slip in and out of consciousness. It's an occasional thing nowadays. So much so, I don't mind the relapse of memory anymore. It seems natural to forget reality. To forget of what has been, what is, and what will become. I want to forget. I like to forget. But even in intoxication of ---, she comes. Lucid. Real.

This time Sinatra was playing in the background. It was "Fly Me to the Moon". Played by a record in the dark corner of the room. A vintage record player, spinning warped disks of canned music. I can't see it, but I knew it was there. I don't know where I am. It feels like a ballroom, but it's empty like the desert. I'm inside, cozy and warm, but I'm outside where it's cold and desolate.

I'm in the middle of the room. The lyrics kick in. I'm dazed. Confused. Everything is so real.

"Fly me to the moon, and let me dance upon the stars."

Like a rehearsed act, she appears. Lucid. Real. She's in a dress. I feel like I should remember it, like I picked it out before I was here. She's so beautiful. Like all the other times I've seen her, regardless of place, time or the observant circumstances. She walks up to me, leaving echos of heels tapping the floor, and looks me in the eye with a smile. Comforting me. Comforting me? "This can't be...", I tell myself. "Why are you doing this to me?"

She doesn't listen. She holds me, hands on my shoulders, her breasts close to my chest. We have clothes, but we're naked. I try to hesitate. I know what is real. She won't do it again. I know what will happen. She leans her face on the crease of my neck. She can sense it. That pain. I can smell her hair. It hurts. Everything is real.

And suddenly as Sinatra hits the chorus, and I feel it. Those past times I try to forget with ---. I want to go back to what was. I want to leave this reality. So, I hug her, so tight that I feel my arms snap beneath my flesh, and my bones crack. But there is no pain. She feels no pain. I can't see her, but I know she's smiling still. She is comforting.

We spin and glide and hug as if we're making love. Nothing's changed. Sinatra does his best number in ages, and it seems like his death was just a facade. I am content. I am happy again. I can finally breathe in what seems like ages. Just like old times.

"In other words, hold my hand."

She looks up to me. She cups my face. But now it's different. I get that feeling again. A feeling I recognized and I've tried to push so hard to the back of my skull that it petrudes and dents my being. I've seen that face before. The expression, right before she said it.

"No. Please. Don't do this. Not again." My head begins to hurt. Just like before.

Her smile fades. The twinkle in her eyes dim quickly and is replaced again when she blinks. The mood isn't happy anymore. we aren't happy. Her eyes tell it all. My heart sinks. It's happening again.

"In other words...", Sinatra sings. "I love you." The record stops. EVerything is quiet.

Then she says it. "I have something to tell you."

Everything falls then. I see darkness, but all I hear are screams from my head to my toe so loud it pierces, and thoughts blaring out from every corner of my consciousness, and images and memories of past and things that have been. Everything falls then. It happens all over again, like there is no tomorrow.

I am conscious. I am on the floor. My heart feels like a stone. I puke. I don't remember where I am in reality. Things happen, but there isn't a timeline.

All I can remember is the past.

Cheers.