The
Stoli bottle's frost melts to brilliance where I press my
fingers.
Evidence.
Proof
I'm here, drunk in your lamp lit kitchen,
breathing
up your rented air, no intention of leaving.
Our
lust
squats
blunt as a brick on the table between us.
We're
low on
vocabulary.
We're
vodkaquiet.
Vodkadeliquescent.
Vodka
doesn't like theatrics: it walks into your midnight bedroom already
naked,
slips in beside you, takes your shoulders in its icy hands
and
shoves.
Is
that a burglar at the window?
No,
he lives with me, actually.
Well, let him in for Christ's sake, let's
actually get this over with
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