Gin & Tonic on a Sunday Afternoon
Bitter on the lips,
spirits of juniper berries
bless and honey tongues
with bite and fire.
Sugared words
that have long abandoned us
take wing in ambrosial flight
from our dark corners—
winter suns—
thawing the frost
that hardens our hearts
and tender fingertips.
Chestnut hair falls before your eyes
as you read, biting your lip—
the smell of you,
tearing like a machete
through bands of cigarette smoke
that haunt the air between us.
You go to the kitchen to make us another drink.
Suckin’ gin from ice cubes,
I sit,
worshiping you, silently,
in reverie
for letting me miss you,
again.
But that’s the story of you and I—
hard to swallow
save these fleeting moments—
like bubbles
at the back of the throat
that make us smile.
Looking out the window,
clouds drifting across pale azure,
I wonder where the hell I’ve been all this time,
as crickets join the fun—
even if just for a while.
Horror Sleaze Trash 
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