Old Fashioned Cocktale

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Questions swirl in the mist of bourbon blended sighs. Cherry puckered rewind of a time I bared my soul, wrapped upon your root – desire sublime.  Where did I go blind? Or did you grow restless before you made me home? I don’t want answers. I want the highs of your kisses and the lows of bowing on my knees. I want the chills that race upon skin, seared with angry regrets. I want the fevered welts left on barren lips that refuse your good-byes. I want your words to embrace me, in unpolished rhythm that pulses in passion spewed upon my chin. 

No excuses, no apologies. Just make it right. 


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