She calls me whisky and says she might
Miss me if she ever stopped kissing me –
I’m her favorite drink and she might think
to pour every bit of down her sink
so she won’t have the damned temptation
to bend to her current crass sensations.
But she keeps drinking. She keeps drinking me.
At night. In town – so everyone can see.
I’m the tounged tart taste that tingles her lips
and the heart ache hold that hangs on her hips.
Before bed she holds my bottle tightly
And takes one long last sip – it’s done nightly.
In the hard, mild light of mid morning
She gets her first desire, a yearning.
She looks around, so no one can notice,
and drinks me down, blooming her lotus.
From there on then her life really begins –
disregarding our various soft sins.
She calls me whisky and she might miss me,
But i hope she never stops kissing me.