There's something effortless about lips stained with wine.
Like a guilt-free, hall pass to unfiltered minds. My bartender poors liquid confidence into my challace of courage. It soon shuts up my "almost" verbage. I think he's magic, he looks concerned at my face, but really I'm just staring in awe of the grace. It's nice to finally know how it feels to not hesitate.
There's something spiritual about long, interstate drives. The thinking that occurs is the lyrics on his mind. Sometimes I cry, often I scream, other times I laugh to feel, just for once, a little lightly. I drum on the wheel and hum with the bass. I know I've felt God, once or twice, on that **** interstate.
I hardly finish poems. I guess I like the idea of things lasting forever. This is why I can't burn bridges, so I leave it all to the weather. It's unrealistic, see this I am aware, but I've always liked pretending, for it keeps me less bare.