God help me, I've tried
to get you off my mind but it's
i m p o s s i b l e,
especially when the memory of you,
your body pressing me firmly
into the grass, uncaring of the lingering rain-damp dirt,
is still burned into my brain
every time you double text for my attention.
The graze of your tongue,
against my own,
a motion so languid, a feeling so warm,
a taste so sweet―
you're like molasses against my lips
sliding, impossible to ignore, down my throat
and dragging with you the words
I can't seem to spit out
and I'm grateful for the soothing relief,
the way your syrup coats where I'm raw:
a glaze that leaves sweetness in its wake
where usually there's bitterness,
both from the coffee that wars with an insomniac's exhaustion
and the way I feel about feelings.
And that's all well and good, for a while.
After all, who doesn't have a sweet tooth these days?
But once the molecules in my throat
have melted away, gone is the glaze that
sweetened the taste in my mouth, and the dark thoughts in my mind;
smothering the taste of coffee with syrup
doesn't remove the stains from your teeth,
and then the more you do it, you find yourself with cavities
and heart disease.
