his bloodshot eyes reflect nothing but a desire
to quench a thirst, one that I don't understand
and probably never will.
love is always followed by a question mark.
it's much like the times that he,
stumbling on the pile of excuses left
haphazardly near the door,
poured his reasons into tall glasses,
and dipped the rims in salt.
tonight will the moon break in half,
sending its shards into his smile again?
it gleams there, the magic that is made every night.
stars melt and are blended, and we drink.
but it is so empty, this hydration.
as full of magic as his eyes are, as his smile is,
they are both filled in equal amounts with pain.
and I can't help but feel as though I am
a mere waitress to his desires, asking if he wants that
on the rocks or straight up.
and if love came served in a shotglass,
he'd be all over that.