By Conner Douglas
Not for the way you tamed that unforgiving liquid,
with its perfume-like aroma digging into
those bite marks on your lips.
Every sip resulting in a euphoric pain of addiction.
Or the way you’d swirl it around,
longing at the ice cubes, begging them to melt quicker.
Not for the way you’d humbly lie,
saying it was somehow sweeter now.
Or the way its sunsetting Campari,
would bleed into your eyes.
It was for the way I panicked at
the nearly empty glass, clenching my teeth,
begging my jaw to detach from my brain.
Let me pour you another.
