And so I told her that my words
Resemble vodka bottles.
I told her that no one gets drunk off just the bottle.
It’s the spirit in the bottle that has you toppling over tables of fear,
And stepping in pools of regret.
It’ll have you slurring confessions of love
To people you have to constantly remind yourself to forget.
It’ll have you dumb happy and stupidly sad.
It’s the spirit that drags out the temptation
Of all that you want to do to her.
Of all that you want to be for her.
I mean, if the bottle has no spirit, why the fuck is it called vodka?
Similarly, if the words have no spirit,
Why the fuck are we calling it poetry?