the most beautiful thing: liquid grace
It is like warm bourbon and honey, this grace. Warm bourbon and honey and wondering where it will trickle to next. Warm bourbon and honey and I am asking for the next pour.
A sense of wonder and agony winds itself around the very space between my ribs, the very space that accommodates too much uncertainty, that very space, that very space that braces against it, as well. A sense of wonder and agony glides deftly over my growing muscles, my sporadically dotted skin, my creased and creasing brow. A sense of wonder. A sense of agony. A sense of question. A sense of inextricable grief. A sense of something untold and passionately painful, passionately painful, passionately burning, painful. And I am asking for another pour.
A slow-motion wave of the hand over eyes over hand over eyes and it stings with the memory, it stings with every memory of you I have laying around every corner, no corner needed, breathe, every breathe, memories lie hidden under every breath. And they sting. They sting good like hot wax. They sting bad like honey bee, like bourbon honey bee, like warm bourbon and honey, bee, honey, pea, sweet honey bourbon pea, sweet pea. I ask again for another pour.
Photo by EMPD.