Touché…
a quiet ghost softly vanilla.
Touching the cheek burning
a boozy warm cognac.
Never rattling the chains,
predictable as an empty glass.
To keep your pale sugar,
and watered-down pastel.
Until you feel the cold
in the quiet room you built,
Unapologetic, heavy and real,
lingering in your throat.
Calling it nothing but a draft,
on a Sunday morning.
Having it your way, so lightly,
you barely have to turn your head.










