Taste Me


You slur more with each shot.

The taste is cold, heavy; thick as it sits

on the brim of the esophagus.

I swallow to not slur.


The taste teases your taste buds,

boomerangs from the back of your throat

to the tip of your tongue.

Your drool dribbles nonsense.

Your saliva lengthens to thin puppet strings.

I’m afraid to change the subject.


You order small appetizers.

I sit back, teeter-totter my glass,

the liquid laps the bottom.


Slouched over the platter,

you gaze at the garnishes,

eye-fuck the meal.

Your pupils dilate,

left lower lip dips,

right upper lip peels, reveals teeth.

You growl.

I keep my shot still.


Your gaze shifts up to me –

pupils shrink, lips flatline –

our eyes meet.

I go for my glass,

your hand cuffs my wrist.

You go for your glass,

my free-hand cuffs your wrist.


I looked down at your plate:

ghosts of heat spiraled upward.

You kicked me under the table.

I looked back up.

You smirked,

freed my hand,

grabbed my shot glass,

cocked head back, swallowed.


I grabbed your glass.

Lips on rim, I could taste

the traces of your Chapstick.

Took a swig. The taste was

light, bubbly and sweet (Champagne, maybe).


You giggled and sighed,

“I miss you.”

I kicked you under the table.


Don’t speak with your mouth full.


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