drunkard

            100, 800 times I thought of you today. Once for every beat of my heart. Your image is pleasantly haunting, so much so that I feel you like a ghost. Hairs on my body stand where you caress me, yet it is only a memory I touch. How I hunger, no… crave the real thing as the minutes churn, ever so slowly churning!, without you. And every minute, 5 quarts of carnal lust burn through my veins, distilled like alcohol and green to the very hue of your eyes. On my breath your scent lingers, like whiskey, but even more rapturous. This is only a ghost left in your wake, yet still so mesmerizing I’m intoxicated. I call out your name and in the distance I even hear your reply. I am addicted and there’s no anonymous meeting as a remedy, except when we meet and our names become synonymous (oh when will that be?). You are beautiful, though beautiful doesn’t quite seem enough of a word to describe you justly—you are so much more. Even still, every time I see you, each time I think of you, I find you more stunning than the moment before. And I stand, stunned, in awe. Bartender, shoot me instead of pouring another shot—I need to see if I’m awake, if I’m even alive. Are you real, my love? 100, 800 thoughts, a head-full of memories, and dozens of side effects from intoxication still aren’t enough. You’re a dream, you’ve got to be. Something this wonderful is impossible