A swig of memory, a drink on me

[jack_babalon]

The muse was puking in the toliet again.

All I could do was sit there next to her, scooping up the flow of her red hair with hands open as if in prayer. She grips the sides of the bowl to keep it from escaping and between bursts of blue yawns asks me if I still love her.

She likes her mixed drinks strong and the color of cotton candy. She likes the amnesia courage of it. She likes how one drink invites another. She likes the way an old story of hers sounds suddenly new. She likes the radio up loud and the way a song can get in her bones until she's dancing around nude. She likes the way an open window frames her sway and the feel of the glass up against her nipples. She likes a cigarette when she's flesh dizzy and she likes to kiss the cheek she just slapped. She likes the way the rum works the light into my face when my face works into her lap.

"Of course I do." I tell her but she's already forgotten what she's asked.

Comments

[poisongirl.livejournal.com]

Well said.

Say more.