Am I Getting Drunk?

Shh, don't tell.

Exhausted orbs blue-ing with sadness
eye the liquid yellowed gray inside
the bottle.
And she asks herself
Am I getting drunk? And little piano keys
are making their way up her arms,
doing a little piano dance into her ears.
The notes soften her sharp edges
and loosen her in-tense-tions whether
or not
they were good.
It tastes good.

Typing digits waver and suspended memories
sway in blinking eyes green-ing with
dizzy little envy monsters causing
eyelids to do a little free fall.
She asks the bottle
Am I getting drunk?
She takes a long drive to the desk,
drives back with the bottle in hand,
giving it a slow, deliberate kiss.

There are acoustic guitar strings
whispering across her skin.
Sounds ravishing, said the bottle,
and the music took a hint
and ravaged her
on the desk
in the endless midnight.
And afterwards, she waits some more,
and wants some more,
whether
or not
it was good.

Reviews

[...]

wonderfully penned, indeed. i loved it.

[Brenda Sue]

A very well written poem. Wonderfully penned. Great job.

[fireblossom]

I too have a screen in my head. I pictured you driving your chair to the bottle and being ravished by the music. What a good poet you are. What a very cool mind you have. Kate oh Kate .. out there in Buckley. Do the locals know who is in their midst? I doubt it.

All the best.