The Journalist
Whiskey on the rocks
then straight from the bottle.
Making out and coming up for air,
“This is a bad idea. I should stop.”
Words slurred and giggled—
hollow anyways.
Mustering sobriety and apologizing
“I’m sorry I’m not a pretty woman.
I’m so sorry I’m not a pretty woman.”
Your laughter,
Kissing—
Too gentle for a one-night-stand.
I should’ve known then.
Body warm and drunk,
fluid
melting
instinctive.
Loneliness,
A ghost vanquished.
Sunshine burning,
acid in retinas,
trapped under your arm and sobering fast.
You,
a hungover beauty with sleepy green eyes
telling me I look beautiful.
This is good!
ReplyDeleteSince when do you like poetry?
I have a love/hate affair with poetry and, no matter how many times I swear to never write another stanza, I always keep coming back to it.
ReplyDeleteActually, my relationship with poetry is a lot like my relationship with booze.