Pulling up the driveway you can see the door. Stepping out of the car gravel crunches beneath your feet. The sky is a deep blue and there is a light in the window glowing almost as soft and warm as their hands on your cheeks. Sitting on the hood of the car you take a long pull from a flask of whiskey. Down your belly, the whiskey burns then fades to embers. Before the fire goes out you take another long pull, and so on, until well after the whiskey has started to taste sweet. You'll be here all night, too fucked up to sleep.
Art in your veins, and there's too much blood to see. When you were kids you found your third eyes hidden in the palms of your hands. Close your eyes, press the palm against your brow and let that eye stare back at you.
The air smells like it's drunk on raspberry liqueur.
You wish you could kiss it on the mouth.
Turn the palm outward. Smell them on the other side of the door. Your mind starts to burn like the whiskey. A searing heat to fade before you stoke the coals again. You're a mad scientist dissecting yourself. If a body could read your thoughts they'd be drunk for days. Ideas start to feel like tactile sensations. Sight blossoming like a flower moves you through kairos. Seen through this hyperdimensional lens there is no difference between the truth of who you are, and what's waiting for you on the other side of the door. If only you walk through.
You put one foot in front of the other, and with that the door opens. They're standing there, beckoning, silhouetted against the golden light of the first new day in too long.