Image: Author

Not poetry, not anything

I’m your glass of Chardonnay

on a hot Saturday night

the moonless sky stalking a raging sea

the other side of the cliff you’re about to drive off

or careening you around corners too dangerous to breathe

I’m the scalding hot chocolate on your tongue in the rain

I’m the rhythm in your head

the sweat on your bosom

the gasp in your throat

the rumble in your belly

The fire in a hail storm pelting the world with my words

I’m the shattered glass

in your feather bed