Light spilling across the dark lawn. Laughter. We could hide, now, till morning, wrapped in a warm September night.
You told me all promises have a due date. What of this last, traced in shaky letters on yellowed paper?
You told me how you'd stow away in his car. Had to be some way to get him to take you home. But desire leans always away from the sun, into the dark. Have another sip.
Fire in the mouth, a little lambent flame running on the lips. Vodka, my lord and savior.
I could tell you secrets, little one. But they have due dates as well.
I saw two lovers on the plaza, this morning, glowing, perfectly suffused with each other, carelessly kindly inclined to all the world. We can't have ever been that young. Can we?
Drink up. Drunks have due dates too.