he was a cool moving piece of blue mountain song.
his trees would sway in the wind of my breathe.
the mountain goats collected in his throat.
and when he spoke, he spoke of mist and dew.
he was a tall glass of whiskey, shot down into your veins.
smoothing through my body, silky and sensual.
his ice tinkled onto my tongue and melted my senses.
and when i drank of him, i drank deeply.
he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.
he was a cool moving broken piece of song in my head.
his notes would flatten up to my breast. over my heart.
the tunes would fade in and out and in and out and in and out
and when he sang, he sang of past indiscretions and future heartbreak.
he was a warm mug of seduction milk
made by your mother after an evening of sweaty dreams and fear.
he tingled into my fingertips soothing me down.
and when i drank of him, he burned through me.
he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.
he was comparable to a Joni Mitchell song, calling you home.
his voice a shaky one swirling inside my head.
the curtains giggled in the movement of his notes.
and when he called to you, he made you feel lost and alone.
he was like a bottleneck coke on a summers day
crisp and clean, sweating down his glass body as i inch closer
he was meant to be swallowed down in large gulps.
and when i drank of him, i drank deeply.
he was a peacock strut, a feather fanfare, a broken victrola crackling my skin.
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