Cold whiskey bleeds on my fingers.
The glass a poison dart frog
secreting toxins,
staving off a thick summer night
and it burns my throat.
When I look for the moon
I find it tangled in threads of cloud.
It shyly asks to be part of my thoughts.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
Cold whiskey bleeds on my fingers.
The glass a poison dart frog
secreting toxins,
staving off a thick summer night
and it burns my throat.
When I look for the moon
I find it tangled in threads of cloud.
It shyly asks to be part of my thoughts.