Drunken you, drunken me.
You have this agenda. From the moment we met, you had your drunken heart set at seeing me drown in the brown colour of your whiskey eyes. Defeated by your smile, I fall to my knees at the sound of your voice. Let's not mention the dimple. A cyclone of emotions. Swirling inwards. Downhill. Fast. I try and escape the bitter sweet scent of rum. But fail to do exactly that. I fail because I take a sip. A sip leads to a mouthful. Then I find myself drunk off of the thought of having an empty cup. Fill it for me? I want to sit back and get drunk off of your sweet words lingering in and around my ears. I'm paralyzed at the thought of actually sobering up. The thought bubbles around the brightest side of my being but I feed off of the darkest.
You were alright when you were sober. But that's just it. You were never sober. Nor was I and I hated myself for that. Or so I thought. Turns out drunken me, suits drunken you best. My red stained glass colours your white stained one. See, I am a preservative in your artificial world. We live off of black labels and blue skys, old wine and classic dines. You blacken my world with constant hungover mornings. Time and again I fall asleep to the sound of you opening another. You've gotten so used to opening up bottles you'd forget about the half full one from the night before. Or do we consider it as half empty? My bitter sweet cravings compel the ones that yearn from your mouth. And there we are, too drunk to even notice, half full glasses complimenting our half empty lives.
J.
*I hope you enjoyed this piece that flirts with the idea of sobriety and love but never really gets there. Contact me and let me know what you think.
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