Taste.

Just one more poem filled with unhealthy, passionate need. One more poem fueled by his clear eyes and square shoulders, he gives my clitoral stamina a mighty workout. He is liquid to me, he jumps around when he plays, kind of half stomping, abbreviated Angus. My eye can't find enough of him. He glimmers in the tin can lights, holding the neck, loose and comfortable. He smiles and everything melts. Maybe I just melt. Lashes the color of honey, I can smell his hair.

When I look at you I don't see married. The rings on my fingers say married. I say married, but he makes me feel like I am not. Why is that? I am nervous, I drink, I am anxious, I drink, I am euphoria and pain, I drink. And then I loosen, I loosen to music and the belt loops of his pants, I loosen to the darkest beer on tap and a shot of Crown, I loosen to converse and white laces, I loosen to sexuality and folded arms, he folds them perfectly. I am in love with the thought of him.

I am thinking, always thinking, always wrapped, always rapping in my head. I never have settled thought. Why can't I just be calm and sit happily on the deck under the trees and be calm? I remember how I used to be in love with the birds and how everything made me happy. Maybe not happy, content, it all made me feel okay. Now I think of how much everything else fades to grey when I think of him, how everything is dull.

This is when I need to decompress. DE Comp! I just need to forget about it, about him, about overly selfish needs and overly indulgent, narcissist crap. But I want it! I WANT IT! Will I get over it? I always do. It just takes me awhile. BUT I WANT IT! I feel like that little Willy Wonka Bitch, screaming for a golden goose.

If you can't plug your quarters into the machine, what is there?