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INNER RAMBLINGS OF AN ALCOHOLIC
BY SIERRA JOHNSON
There is a fairy tale
Hidden in salt rimmed glasses and subtle
constellations.
I can see the clearest of blue eyes in tan liquid,
Beckoning me down a rabbit hole so intimate
That false innocence is easily subdued.
There's something so incredibly alluring about
it,
My lips easily offer tribute
Throat begging pity over hallucinated
liquid idols.
Vision produces static that waxes and
wanes
Over cloudy faces that begin to look like
the Sun.
But morning exists in lingering fingertips
And, perhaps,
It's the touch that sends me home.
