I write as the bourbon strikes a match within me--

("You can feel it right here," you say,

Pointing to your stomach)--

As I feel my brain cells dying, those little balloons popping

Out of existence with each grim sip:

Four years shy of legality, yet four years nearly

Complete, these four years of love you-hate you-love you's

Inflating my head into a cloud of confusion--

Or could it be the boubon?--

A senseless, suicidal determination to live for you

That creeps like the tendrils of headaches,

A depressed determination battling the temptation

Of scrawling in my skin rosy-hued, to-be tattoos

Next to the white, raised reminders of

Butterflies in Sharpie, butterflies in my stomach--

Drink more bourbon, just one more glass won't kill you,

Warm you up a bit, maybe--

From you, my devil in the leather jacket,

You in black, I in white, yet no innocence lost

Between you and me; between you and me,

I prefer you over me: an

Utter disregard of self-loyalty, and 

I scare myself into shutting my mouth far too often,

For far too often my admission of melancholic

Emotions leads to your emission of a sigh, that

Disappointed glaze underneath your glasses--

One more glass, it won't kill you, it'll just

Burn a little--

Amazing grace, how sweet the

Taste of chocolate bourbon milk on my tongue,

Knowing we shared the same calcium and alcohol,

And knowing is that we were hurdlers over our

Four-year-long obstacle course,

And this race has come full oval,

Like your eyes when you laugh, yet wider--

Not quite a perfect circle, for 

Life isn't perfect, my dear devil,

Nor is it as easy as pi,

But I don't mind being singed by you in the process, so--

One more drink won't--

Kill me gently.