They say falling in love is not easy, but all it takes is a shot glass glance, and no sooner than later you’ll look at her profile in the dim light, and you’re in love.
Everything then becomes crimsoned, not because you are in a pub,
but rather because it is the shade of passion,
love.
And no sooner than now, you are dreaming of throwing your hands beneath her dress,
and thinking of mouthing, “I love you” from your eyes, to hers.
But no, she does not walk up to you, and you feel that the stereotypical misconception of a woman never making the first move, is true.
This is a man’s work, you tell yourself, dubiously forgetting what too lies between your legs, is nothing that of a man.
You’re intoxicant now, perhaps from the four Pabsts you've downed because you’re cheap and cool,
and you are incoherently waltzing
on over to her, and of course she smiles,
either because you look like an idiot,
or because she is charmed.
You cup your hands on her face.
The skin is soft, she says nothing,
but feels warm.
This is not love. You’re just drunk.
I wish I was who you think of, when drunk.
