Cue thunder: a crash

I'm stumbling home, whiskey still mumbling in my veins and strains of music still ringing in my ears, but all I can think of is your hands, your nails painted blue and black and sharp enough to cut.

Your hair, falling over your bare shoulders in an improbably red snarl.

Your breasts, not even close to straining the confines of your flimsy tank top, but soft and, in my mind, perfect.

Your breath, sharp and milky because you drink White Russians with an abandon I haven't managed in years. Maybe I never could. Maybe I just wished it.

You had on tall boots that laced all the way up, no zipper because you think that's cheating.

I'm so in love with you and you can't even imagine a world outside your own head. Or maybe that's just me, dreaming myself important.

The truth is that I don't know you. I don't even want to; you're probably fucked up in ways I can't even pretend to want to fix. Or maybe you're just too good for me.

The whiskey makes me more honest with myself than I want to be. I want to hold onto the vision from the club, your entire precious self swinging to the beat, but it slips away, quietly.

I'm not sad. I'm not sad. I'm not sad.