I Got A Taste

I saw her eyes swollen with smoke and weeping, felt her cold hands stroke my forehead. “I’ll cure you, I’ll cure you,” she was murmuring.

And this is how my last months have gone and passed. And I am aware, sure, catastrophically aware that this is no good. I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words, and I am nothing in my soul of not obsessive. Possessive, even. And it is always October in my throat. The throat that drank vodka until it tasted like love. The throat who inhaled and exhaled, both the breath of a once lost lover, and the smoke of the lovers cigarette. And I read The Master and Margarita and The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, smelling the ghost of my lover's perfume. Because I might have fallen into bed with them when I was under the influence. But I don't wanna know I'm wrong.

No, I don't wanna know I'm wrong. I'm waiting by your back door, let me come in. I got your favorite dress on, long hair pinned up. I like you lots, polka dots, hope desire's in your thoughts. Thinking of you, dreaming of us. 'Cause you know I got a taste for tonic and gin. You know I got an eye for fur and fine things. You know that I'm to die for, baby, give in! I told you when we met what you were in for... Put the radio on.