He is a bottle of booze.
(with a face like peaked ice
and hands of soft regrets)
Old, wasted, tinted bottle of booze
Forgotten in the sands of a picnic
Left to lie on sunless shores
And wither away in softly-spoken
He spills out like an accident
(though it’s very finely planned)
And gathers up his amethyst-faded
Back into his mouth with careful fingers.
Apologies like grains unseen
Sliding down his throat in
Boozy eyes and a boozy smile,
He dribbles out his own lips.
But he cannot grasp
Such an ill-fated concept:
To be drunk, but not have tasted
A single drop.