Glass of Whiskey

You’re the glass
I pour my whiskey into
the perfect weight.
Heavy, broken in.

Your neck
rests comfortably
against my fingers.

Your cold body,
lost in my warmth,
your lips become sticky, sweet,
clinging to mine.

Your curved body shimmers,
gold amber dances,
inviting you to do the same.

You see the bruises I hide
behind the biggest of grins.

I pour myself into you,
and you pour yourself right back.
Each swallow, I am closer to you.

You balance me
just as I balance you.

Eventually, we’ll reach
the bottom of the bottle
a place I can rest my head,
nice and warm,
heavy through the night.