a fleeting moment

i adore you and you alone
she said, again, again
again I’m drunk
which, ironically, is when
i believe her most
but still I ask
and so she pours
another whiskey ginger
and a fumbled glass
jambs my left thumb

she prefers jameson
so I bought her a liter
my kind of romantic gesture,
a bouquet better
than withering flowers
lined in a civil row
along the balustrade
of her front porch
where we recline
in whicker chairs
smoking cigarettes like soldiers,
flicking ash cavalierly
down the victorian steps

while our long looks grow longer
with each glass of liquor,
we drink quicker and quicker
until my gaze a little longer lingers
on her eyes, her breasts, her lips—
but her eyes, there longest

until she notices
and laughs, what?
nervously? I can’t say
no, it’s nothing
well, that is to say
what I mean is –
well, shit.
words don’t always express
or convey what I wish,
what I want to say.
instead I stumble, mutter
and wonder which end
will come first:
the bottom of the glass,
the snub of a cigarette,
our last laugh perhaps
well, whatever
pour another
gingy whisker

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