Cup of Joe

Joe


"We're golden. We're cristal."
You say it as if it's liquor and not
a measly, bubbly, barely feel it in the veins champagne.
As though we're mixing drinks here. Two parts "this", one part "that".
This being you. That being me.
(Now let's throw in half an ounce of bullshit, two packs of smokes, and call it a day. The sun is indeed rising now, darling.)

This tastes, at first, aimless, followed by a hint of self assurance, then the slight yet unmistakable flavor of calamity, finishing with unapologetic, relentless, one might even say searing to the core, fervor.
Your gangly, wanton fingers traipse along my goosebump ridden flesh. Your velvetine, crimson lips graze ardently on the now seemingly vast expanse between my collarbones and shoulderblades, among numerous, other spaces your lush, fleeting, touch dare not crawl. Your hushed, mellifluous promises saunter the curves of my ears before plunging, embedding themselves into the furthest caverns of my marrow.

You. The epitome of unkempt. You. Coarse and calloused and crude. You. In the most unrefined way the finest