I apologize,
but the liquid ran clear,
as it lacked the taste of beer.
I turned the bottle's end into the air,
and held it until I couldn't bare.
My mouth was marinated in liquor, my dear.
My tongue was saturated in Fireball.

Ever since, that unfaithful night,
my tongue must feel like a flame of dishonesty
against your flowering rosebud;
since, it drunkenly 'ate' up
it's own spoken promise in faithfulness.

For now, it lays in a bath full of salvia coded guilt with
forgiveness standing at the tip;
in it's want to lovingly still explore you.