It’s like the high is a being Itself.

I’ll climb onto Its scaly back and hold tight to Its rough and worn horns.
And It’ll spread Its massive purple wings—each feather a piece of me and all the people I’ve ever known— and take off past the rocky, salty-smelling mountains.

I’ll hold It tighter, daring to close my eyes long enough to feel transparent and weightless till I’m nothing but a film of myself, filtering the wall of cool air. The air will sting my face in a most pleasant way. Then my eyes will open and I find I’ve been riding for so long, the yellow-red sun had already soaked back into and under the watery horizon.

The Moon will smile down sweetly at me. She’ll be glad that I’ve found such happiness. It’s all she ever wanted for me.

The High will shiver beneath me; I’ll know It was growing tired. I’ll pat Its sides and kiss it’s warm scales and hold It for as long as It will allow.
But eventually, all things must come to an end.

Landed, I will wave to my friend and sit—waiting to ride It again.