"One extra dry martini please. Oh hey wait! Make that two. And keep them comin"

She slid a hundred dollar bill across the table the way she slid the knife across my throat. Hesitant but then full force. No matter how many martinis that bartender slid across that counter, she always looked like she could use another. No matter how long ago she finished her cigarette, she could smoke another. She took everything beautiful in her life with a grimace but killed me with a smile. Her lips haunt my dreams. And her hands grip my throat. Maybe one day she'll finally get drunk enough to tell me all the things she's too scared to say sober.

Poetry is not just a mess of words thrown together to tell a story about the boy you adore .Poetry is the letters that ****** a reader's sight, smell, touch, taste, and hearing. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something as deeply as you love the dark haired boy with knobby knees, as you love your grandmother on her deathbed, and as you much as you love the feel of someone else's dumpling lips against your own. Poetry holds your heart up among the angels or drags your sensitivity down below dark waves of pain.