Amaretto, a relic of amber…
with a scent of almonds,
and cherry pits.
Like a velvet glove,
sliding down the throat,
an intoxicating shadow.
As the clock strikes two,
and the silence grows still,
thick with a haunting sensuality.
As the amber dissolves,
every drop feels like a secret,
kept from the morning sun.
Bruising the tongue,
leaving the heat that lingers,
longer after the breath is drawn.
Like an old devotion,
close to the skin,
as the clock strikes two.
