Follow You Down

You spend an evening mixing everything in the liquor cabinet -- in our youth we called it witch's brew, now you pray for a potion. Vermouth makes its way to the split ends of your hair and it reminds you of your grandmother, the little glasses she'd serve it in, the way her laugh would warble and climb ever upwards. (I miss her terribly.)

The evening is cool, quiet, there's a lightness in the air that makes it perfect for writing. Instead I spend hours staring out at the street corner thinking of your fingertips against my skin and doodling senseless drivel with drying ink. At the end of the day, what does it matter, so long as letters tumbled around the room, so long as the world seemed less drab, more promising. Anaïs Nin whispers mad secrets about the stars under your eyelids, and you think there must be something to this, after all.

If the Word isn't meant to be my salvation,
why does it call me so?