When the bottle points in your direction
I will lick my lips
anticipation pricking my hips and thighs
quiet reminder of hasty handprints
and you will rise to your feet,
unsteady and eager
sweaty palms a dead giveaway
virgin nervousness.
We meet in the middle -
nose to nose,
toe the line
and the dream stops.

I wake to view the body
of a middle-aged man
who snores with abandonment -
who drinks the same way.
And I fuck like he drinks
but I don't ever feel terrible
in the morning.
I'll leave
before he joins the living.

He won't remember me.

You are the only one
who does.
When you ask why
I don't come
I refuse -
I will not point to you,
but this is the truth:

The bottle always points
in your direction. I lock my lips
when I realize
I love you too much
to rub two addictions together
just to see what sparks.
I know
what smolders in me already.
You are a molotov cocktail,
doused and unlit - glass still intact
but just barely.
My thighs and these flames,
left unstoked
will burn down to quiet
by morning.

When the bottle tips -
I will not sip. I'll settle
for smoking coals.

You'll wake
to view good intentions
snoring beside you. Trust, crumpled
and tossed to the floor.
You'll rise
unsteady and blinking and eager
to pass on the crown of blame,
your throbbing head, waypoint
to last night's transgression -
and I'll remain woke.

I will regret everything
you can't remember
handful of ashes, sifting for treasure -
wait for the story's spin -
one more cycle
to this revolution.

Just meet me
in the middle, please
next time.