the only metaphor.

we were enjoying the finer side of food poisoning--

the walls and lamps exhaled, the chandelier curled as if flaunted above a flame.
our home was puffy, swollen, and as the ceiling was beginning to sag
i was drawn outside.
through darkened rooms i passed,
the charged chatter behind me faded to fuzz,
wind whistled through the hallways between my ears.
i was deaf; my steps ceased on the balcony.
i stood in silence knowing,
for certain, this was death.
dying sounds like a stone-walled tunnel,
an enveloping breeze easing me forward, forward--

suddenly, you called from the doorway.
you were naked to the waist,
hair loose and grazing places i wished to pillow my cheek.
looking utterly messianic,
you too felt the pull.

i spoke briefly of my death,
how terrifying yet understood
the sleep had been.
you wanted to comfort me, but couldn't--
there were eyes about the house
(tommy appeared by the door and watched us
for some time).

i watched your feet lift from the damp ground,
i felt your weight everywhere.
you spread your arms
and we existed there, silent as again
the sound had fled.
walls around us crumbled at an unseen touch,
we were held in the orange glow of the alley light
that never went out.

tommy soon stood behind you--
his mouth moved, but there were no words
beyond the mud puddles of your eyes in which
my heart would be molded clay.
your body rose higher, my bones, now liquid,
flowed evenly into my blood
and then tommy, finally screamed,
"you're both standing in dave's piss!"