High Lights

Every time it happens, it just feels comfortable.
We were always meant to be here,
In this giddy, half-asleep daze,
Dreamy and hazy and star-studded,
In love with everyone and everything,
In love with being alive,
This isn’t dreaming, this is the real world,
High on happiness and drunk on wonder,
This is the me-shaped hole in the universe that I finally fit into,
The final cosmic puzzle piece slotted into place,
I dread falling back asleep.

Every time it happens, I feel myself almost overflowing,
Like someone has opened up my skull and poured in mentos and cola,
Fizzy sherbet tingling along every inch of my skin,
The pressure builds up in my soul,
Sparkling electricity with nowhere left to go,
I am joy stacked on joy and weaved together,
The fibres of my being and the thread I’m sewn with are pure emotion,
I have never been anything else,
I am heavy with liquid weightlessness,
Lifting me up into the air,
I could float away forever and still feel nothing but content.

Every time it happens, I never want it to stop.
I sink into it, like a deep and squishy old couch,
Imprinting my outline on the cushions,
My skin melting into the faux leather,
The material absorbs me, so that I never rise again,
It’s like a warm bed in winter, 
Or a hot bath, silken on my skin,
The squeeze of an embrace,
The glow of laying in an afternoon sunbeam,
I feel like a child at the playground,
In the sand pit, on the swing,
This is perfect,
This eternal moment,
Please don’t make me leave.

About the author

Hexacopa (they/he) is a queer, neurodivergent poet and creative from Meanjin/Brisbane. They write to explore emotions, romanticise the mundane and to translate the colourful way he sees the world.