You have never spoken to me without whiskey-stained words,
And every time I see you, my stomach burns like I’ve swallowed Jack Daniels.
I remember taking that first shot with you, and not knowing why my fingers trembled around the glass like they did.
Your fingers grazed my waist and I shuddered to think of them sliding beneath the fabric of my shirt to ignite embers on my skin.
I’ve been told that you minus alcohol equals deep conversation and a radiant smile.
You plus alcohol equals a laugh that melts bone marrow and glassy eyes that look right through me. Your drunkenness endears me.
I should be ashamed for wanting you, but when drunk words are rumored to be thoughts of one’s sober heart, what does that say for one’s actions?
Must I pluck at flower petals to see how you feel, or tear open my skull to release you from a thought pattern I gave you no permission to enter?