Like sitting at the computer with your leg crossed underneath you; any fool knows you will end up with pins and needles but you do it all the same, you notice the strange bouncy feeling when you get up and try to walk on the numbed leg before the sudden nipping pains start.
Like picking at scabs, saying you're being careful, you're just taking away the crusty bits across tight pink healed skin until you pull too deep and the blood flows again.
Like cats and top-heavy stemmed wine glasses do NOT mix.
Like "I'll do it later"
Like re-reading your old words, hoping to see a different nuance, something to lighten the absence of hope.
Todays wine bottle, Marqués de Ballestar Reserva 2005, has a little net of gold threads around it, perhaps that will make me feel special, or at least help me forget that I am not.
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alcohol. Show all posts
05 April 2010
13 March 2010
Nil by mouth...
It is as if my lips have been sewn together, each time I want to communicate with you I am pulling on the stitches, the muscles around my mouth twitch now in anticipation of the tearing pain; if I carry on I will have short stubby whiskers as the knots come loose.
I can't ask even "how are you?" because my words are so potent, we are so poised over the precipice that to even make polite conversation will start us off on that luge-track again.
I would prefer my words to be a gently bubbling warm jacuzzi, something you would feel both exciting and comfortable; but it seems I am instead a black run, exhilarating but fraught with the danger of crashing out, and in any case there is a sharply defined end.
I would like to be a spicy Merlot, full bodied and tangy, to be anticipated and savoured each time the bottle is broached, there is a ceremony to it's opening.
But it seems I must be a cheap blended whisky, my taste is harsh but acquired, as the patina of adulthood is acquired and sometimes I was just what you needed to get pissed, to blot out any sorrows and be gladly uplifted by the glamorous falseness of "having fun" and I wonder how you are drowning your sorrows now?
And perhaps it is better that my mouth is forcibly closed, who knows what I would pour into it, and then what would pour out?
I can't ask even "how are you?" because my words are so potent, we are so poised over the precipice that to even make polite conversation will start us off on that luge-track again.
I would prefer my words to be a gently bubbling warm jacuzzi, something you would feel both exciting and comfortable; but it seems I am instead a black run, exhilarating but fraught with the danger of crashing out, and in any case there is a sharply defined end.
I would like to be a spicy Merlot, full bodied and tangy, to be anticipated and savoured each time the bottle is broached, there is a ceremony to it's opening.
But it seems I must be a cheap blended whisky, my taste is harsh but acquired, as the patina of adulthood is acquired and sometimes I was just what you needed to get pissed, to blot out any sorrows and be gladly uplifted by the glamorous falseness of "having fun" and I wonder how you are drowning your sorrows now?
And perhaps it is better that my mouth is forcibly closed, who knows what I would pour into it, and then what would pour out?
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