Whiskey neat

It was always your
way to vanish
without a word
and ensconce
yourself in the sills
of doors that screened
lively liquor bars,
rest your head against
the pain and let your
thoughts settle in
an incoherent mess
at the bottom of
your heart, your cold
fingers curled against
whiskey neat. The
liquor burns your
throat like fireworks,
lips lackluster from
the liquor lullaby,
waiting for the day
when love won’t taste
like the last sip of
whiskey  and the
flood of fire in your veins.


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