you're
crushing up overwhelming silence
and mixing it into my drink. your
voice slurs: baby, drink this.

your hands envelop mine
pushing elixir into my blood.
when i wake next week
you are beside me, naked
and hibernating despite
summer's grip on
your throat.

i remember
the softness of
hands

the lull of your touch
a slow conviction mixed with
twisted hope
sloshing around together; twisting
to form alchemy and promise and
spoilt wine.

there is no
magic in
waiting.