When He Tastes Like Whisky

By

He tasted like whisky that night.
He asked if I could taste it on him,
So I kissed him harder and said, “A little.”
His eyes,
the same color as my 20-something loneliness.
I knew how easy it would be to drown in his blues,
but in summer,
I learned how to tread water.
I stayed afloat
and kissed him more.

There were nights I could hear a symphony
as he pulled me inside the sheets with him.
I couldn’t tell if it was our synchronized heart beats,
or maybe just a clock ticking.
I wanted it to be something else.
Anything,
instead of just bodies reacting
to things like endorphins
and adrenaline.
I was never going to be a drug to him.
He was never an addiction to me.
This unhealthy thought that made me sad,
when I am used to craving things.
We were just enough,
but I remember kissing him,
Tasting the whisky,
And wanting to pour the bottle down our throats
to be drunk in honesty.
I wanted to be drunk on him.
I wanted an addiction to form.

But it never did.
It was always just a taste,
A hint of the last drink.


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