memory #43
she was a tall,
strong drink
and my lips
had never, been
that close to fire.
it’s six-thirty,
on a thursday
and there’s no one
around to tell-
no one around,
to see what my
wandering hands,
have gotten
me into.
you were
accidentally mine
and, well,
i didn’t mind:
taking small sips
and letting my
fingers dip,
inside
to stir you up.
the radio,
was playing low
and i wish you
weren’t so
beautiful.
because it’s never
beautiful,
to be an accident
no matter how good,
you taste.
