I made a poem.

“Party, 1602”

It’s hot
In the crowded room.
I know that.
In the familiar place,
The solitude dissolves.
Only heat, heat, heat.

Heat that begins to pressurize,
And the room starts to distend.
Nobody feels it at first.
They see each other, not yet themselves
Slamming into one another and filling the room.
They are still within their bodies.
Their fingers do not yet twitch.
There is room for the heart
To stretch, expand. To stay cold and one
And unfamiliar.
So it comes on slowly, the noise like the machine in the walls,
Imperceptible and everywhere.
The skin starts to glisten
And slip against the others’.

At 12:00 it really comes in.
The distillation of sweat-soaked eyes,
And the existential clarity of fused perceptions.
Bug eyes and frenetic heads,
Heat friction of bodies and swirling minds.
Churning bodies and fissured heads.
The atoms in a crowded room unhook and engage,
And take new shape.
Like blue and yellow entering a canvas,
And neither one comes out.
Everyone dies in a crowded room,
If they stay.

Vivid shimmering in the upstairs hall,
The artery where the heat collects
And rips apart.
My atoms are expanding,
And my heart is changing.
I am not leaving.
And You—
You have an absolutely vertigo-inducing smile.