Whiskey Lips

By Purvi Rathod

I'd like to kiss your whiskey lips. Very gently. Because if I bite them, you might spill and I'd get high off of you.

I'd like to kiss your whiskey lips with my sober ones and put you to sleep. And when you wake up in the morning, I'd smile, knowing I didn't break your heart.

I want my walls to scream your name when you're not here.

I'd name my spleen after you just so I'd have something good in me. Something that I can hold onto. Something that makes sense amongst all the nonsense. So I know that it'll take care of me the way you do after you're gone.

I'd name you my last word.

My shoestring lies by the door, untied since last night.

As we spent it talking, I wondered if your words had enough reason to stay in the atmosphere. Or would they just float away into some galaxy that facilitates us.

I don't want to be happy when I don't talk to you. All else is stupid. All else is mad.

I'd like my pillow to remember each strand of your hair and it'll spell it out to me when you go.

I want my hands to map your fingerprints so they always know where to go.

You're what the inside of the moon must look like. Imagine the beauty if only the outside is this stunning!

And when you're depleting, like the moon so frequently does, I'll thread my words together to paint you all new.

You’re not always absolute but you keep fascinating me. What else would I want?

Nothing else. Nothing more.

By Purvi Rathod