Rosaline's Retaliation

he was pure alcohol:
intoxicating intelligence
rounded by little sleep
-always day dreaming by night
        as if the sun were too beautiful for him to think.

his eyes were pools of vermouth
butterbabies of breathtaking beauty,
palm always gripping a whiskey sour
-sultry, swing dancing hands
        that would pass over me, drinking me in.

he made me drunk off his creativity
lips trying to swallow the sweet elixor of 2:30 a.m. radio
and I knew he was seven shots
-burning clarity sliding down my throat
        remembering saturdays of drinking past

and I am a lightweight:
forever tipsy off tranquility
provided by the bartender of my beating heart.

he is pure alcohol
and I am poisoned.