An Image

According to my text message, I was drinking colors. The world was a pinwheel of images, and as I breathed harder things only blurred more. I felt like a child on a cold day. I couldn’t feel my legs; they were beneath me. I couldn’t find my friends; they were beside me. Things began to spin. I became the pinwheel, and watched the world blur. It was beautiful, canvas turned to palate. Somewhere in the funnel of memories, you appeared. You had your hands turned up, palms out. I’d never seen you like this before. I didn’t stop to ask you if you needed something. Your eyes were wet. I switched to the next scene, like a kaleidoscope. This time I only saw your hands, and the image blurred, then focused. It felt like dying, watching your hands sink and then reappear. I wanted to place the back of my hands in yours, to feel the weight you were carrying. It wasn’t much, I imagined. You looked like you wanted more, so I pretended to give you a part of me. You began to cry, as I watched my hands, dripping rubies, release a pumping heart into your hands, now folding. I didn’t feel any pain, but it looked like you did. I didn’t understand why you cried. Your tears turned to blood to match your dripping hands. When I looked down for my own footing, I saw nothing. Blankness. I looked up, and you were much closer. No more tears. You began to kiss my cheek, and your arms felt like stepping from the shadow into sunlight. When I closed my eyes, I felt like an infant, held in the arms of his mother, her soft voice cooing him to sleep.