His words are like dark liquor:

Pouring and teasing the rim of the stem glass.

A peck of sunshine upon the polished glass—

And it's burning in purple pain and liquor lust.

He tattoos every word of caress and hurt

On my arms and bare feet and stomach.

It pains and pleases the arms, red—

And lo, an army of butterflies fills my chest.

And even when he leaves, I love him more.

It's Sunday morning, but not the usual garden kisses.

A bunch of lilies on the wooden table and a note in red.

Having him was beautiful, but loving him was a black liquor mistake.