By Wednesday
I’m ready to
         unhook
              unhinge
                    unfold.
Peel this pale skin
right off these overtaxed bones
& let my soul sip
on all of the thoughts
I scolded myself
for thinking
while I walked
across the company parking lot.

I’m sure she would tell you
that those sipped thoughts—
they taste like slow jazz.
They envelop the tongue
without permission
& casually uncoil into
all of the beautiful,
tasteless language
that is able to seamlessly
twist and bewitch.

I’m sure she would tell you
that anything
worth a sip
is forbidden,
as she cups her palms
& presses them to your lips.

“Have a drink,” she’ll say,
   “You need some color
                       in those cheeks.”