There’s ringing in my ears.

Dappled watercolors glaze my eyes

to pool, to part

gently into the crystalline haze

where gray incense smoke huffs indignantly

in puffs, in waves and

delight.

A frown on its face.

Shadows cast in purple–

no, mauve

no, lavender

no.

It bled together, twisting

intertwined shades bursting vividly,

I could still see them when I closed my eyes.

Morning sunlight danced on

royal crimson cushions

engraved in golden

patterns

lined tassels and

the wooden backing of the low

couch cut like fresh pearl marble

under my fingertips.

My head dully throbbed

a sluggish

feverish

pulse

gaping

as I rested my hand on the cranium,

disappointment rising like bile when I felt only 

shadows.

I stood on silver tiles,

their echoes boomed against

empty arches and endless ceiling.

An accompaniment

to complement

the distant gurgle

of running water.

The dining hall stretched to eternity,

the damp grayness of it untouchable

even as I am flush against the walls.

The windows were hidden

under an elusive sheen

of pale chiffon curtains,

gliding and bouncing

as if there was a breeze I could not feel.

The ringing grew and

I was under a mahogany table.

A small, round, squat one

that had splinters on the underside.

My eyes dart,

bright and pyretic

senselessly seeking

searching

longing

to hold the dark folds and edges 

of the table cloth.

The light branded my skin,

the syrupy taste of it

like dying flames sticking

as I shrunk into the silver tiles.

Ebbing edges of my vision

burning and darkened

like the vignette of a polaroid.

The yellow-tassel red

dyed scratchy 

fabric of the crimson pillows

cradled me upright.

I am back here now.

My head pounded lazily,

slow like crescendoing war drums.

The pain cooed and massaged my temples.

cupping slender hands around my eyes.

They shoved and me and I

plunged

into an explosion of muddy rose petals

and Chinese spices.

Thick mist enveloped me and

ran its hands through my hair.

The crimson-mauve-purple caressed

my cheeks with a 

red lip grin;

Its marble was

deathly cold.

I did not blink.

I did not breathe.

The pain clutched my eyes in

phantom hands,

steadily staring back at me.

The haze lingered, silvery light

glossed over in broad strokes

of thickly layered oil paint

solidifying me

into the scene. Heady

with terror and eyeless

aching.

When I moved my head,

I dragged myself through the mud-pain.

Slimy.

thick

and all-consuming.

I’m gasping for air.

The pain tumbled off my bed

of roses and golden tassels,

of mist

and onto

silver tiles sticky

with plaster,

languid.

I looked up with dilating fever pupils 

and saw the flickering white sign.

August Moon.

Everything was gone.