gonna drink bacardi like it's your birthday
So drunk, I burst out in laughter at myself.
So drunk, it took me five minutes to craft that first line, sifting through the lack of cognizance and struggling to push out of the chair to get another drink. Your shots found me. There's nowhere to hide.
My veins are unstoppered infrastructre, pumping these unfiltered musings into the unsophisticated filters of a churning mind. It's been a long time since my extremities were this unsure; my hands this unaware of a keyboard, my tongue so unfamiliar with the velvet kiss of cream when the grocery maven forgets your proclivities.
I'm shivering with need in a sleeping house, and I don't know what my fix is. Flesh? Affection? Bouy? I twitter with the youth of my understanding that all we have are promises and prospecti, scattered and hiding beneath the embarassing illumination of early dawn.
Beauty is a theory constructed of myth and chemicals, but we never cease to chase and order and objectivize and assess it.
My hands are shivering, and there's nothing to be done but wait till the covers come up. My feet are cold on the marble, the beat insistent, and the dampening felt of alcohol heavy over my interactions with the insistence of morning.
Run your hands through me; perhaps the world's gone mad and I'm alone, but there's always the chance that you snuck out, too.