The ride home is always shorter, left to the interpretation of weary eyes and hearts. I wanted you to be Sambuca black with a voice like molasses, but I remember you as the moment that the Absolut wore off and I sobered up beneath you, left to stare at my reflection in a mirror hung sloppily from the ceiling of a nameless hotel. Painfully real. A bad taste in the mouth. Permanently temporary, like a child's hands in wet cement.
Copyright synesthesiology 2011