Lost

It’s lost he wants to be, not found, X tells me. But lost in the good way, not the bad way, he says. Not like this, not stuck here talking to me. Given over, that’s what he wants to be, transported, ecstatic. That would be his homecoming, his amazing grace! he says. No more chatting to you, he says, no more you and me. I’d be you, you wouldn’t know what hit you! So how do I get ecstatic? he says. I should probably stop talking to you for one thing. Maybe I should drink some more. Maybe I should get raving drunk, or take some ecstasy. Where can I get ecstasy? But how would you know? Maybe if I raved at you, he says, spoke in tongues with rattlesnakes in my hands, if I went off my head, off my tits, and moved you to speak, to speak to me through my raving, to take my tongue and speak with me, in me, if I fooled you enough to move you, then maybe I’d get lost, but in the good way not the bad way, lost in you not in myself, not sat here tapping on my keyboard sipping wine. But of course you wouldn’t get moved, he says, how could you, I’m not a complete idiot – yes I am. People would look round at me and shake their heads and wonder whether to call someone, the rattlesnakes would bite me and I’d wake up in bandages, embarrassed.