Антидепрессант

Love is like a pill - sweet to the taste, but with side effects. It goes down easily, but then my head spins, as if from too much air and lack of sleep. I want to believe for just a moment that the antidepressant is right there - not from a pharmacy, but made of flesh, a gaze, and a faint scent of perfume. The realization that there won't be reciprocated love no longer hurts - it just hums quietly under the skin, like a tram outside the window at nite. Everything around looks like it was shot on an old VHS tape - headlights, an empty highway, a "beamer" with a plastic Paris Hilton in the passenger seat. A little awkward, a little sad, but somehow truly real. There's despair and tenderness in this rhythm, and that strange honesty where instead of confessions, there's a plea: just be medicine, even for a little while.