it's the way the sunlight hits her eye
that makes her look so enticing,
like a glass of whiskey
on a thirsty day
of never being
enough.
it's that brown being lit up golden
through the windows
that tease a glance
into a broken
soul.
it's my fault for always finding myself
out in that desert, with nothing
to drink away the need
to forget about and
walk out of the
desert.
it's that jar of honey she sees the whole
world through that keeps pouring
and calling me to take
a drink of her
whiskey hued
irises.
my only defense is uttering out loud:
name's Ander,
and I'm an alcoholic.
