As I Sip My Vodka

As I sip my vodka and watch you tease open your mouth and slip your tongue so effortlessly down against your bottom lip, wetting the ripe painted surface. Is it scarlet or crimson or maybe even rouge? And as you put your fingers down delicately against your tongue and smear them with something delectable, is it sweet or savoury or a little both?

I don't know but I want a taste.

I want to kiss and share your treat.

And as I sip my vodka I imagine moving closer.

Hand on your thigh.

Other in your hair.

Mouth on your cheek.

As I feel the triple filtered potent fermented potato elixir line my throat, my mind wanders and all I want is to lick your tongue.

But my head spins a little.

And as I sip my vodka and pour another,

do I venture a finger or two to join your digits at the sacred and wanton opening of glory that is yer mouth?

And as I let the booze affect my mind, the more it does, the more the Scot comes oot tae wield his skean dhu of words an' wordplay, trade barbs wae the Bard.

Thou is more tempered an' bonnie as ah take the stage o life itself an' prance aboot like Puck or Bottom. I think o yer bonnie wee cheeks as they redden as you sip ma voddie.

Out out woof woof.

An' the booze it lines oor esophagean canal, if that's a terminology, an' lines oor bellies with the noff o smir, an I cannae wait til we're alone together again.

But as Ah swig ma voddie an' ponder the lines of your lips and the curves of yer breasts, Ah mind yer no here rite noo.

Away frae away frae me, fair bonnie ma lassie, awae Doon south tae mingle wae the English, of which ye are one, but an honorary Scot you've always bin tae me.

Ah miss ye ma darling, but this voddie is goin strait tae mah heid as Ah sink deep inside an imagine a rose and a bunch of peonies all dressed in pink an' red, or is it rouge or crimson or scarlet like the lips?

Ruby wet jewels of promise with a tongue to soften an ogre and quiet a bawdy Scot who is nae Duncan or Macbeth, neither a Tam o' Shanter, tho given tae intoxification as the room dances and Ah sip the tip of my Russian delight. Ah remember the past and present.

Where was Ah?

And as Ah sip my vodka—

Oh yes, that's right.

A kiss.

For ma fair and bonnie wee lassie.

Thou are ma darling, my ragtime gal.

Whatever the bloody hell that means.

If ye could just stay still, ma darling, ah could plant a ship sinker strait oan yer bold lips and feel everything at once, if the room stops moving and the words stop skipping.

“Boys in the Better Land” plays and I wanna dance, but I'm here alone. But I dance alone, or tap my toe quietly so as not tae disturb the neighbours.

And as Fontaines D.C. winds up and breaks down, ah remember yer feet tapping when yer in yer jammies or just yer knickers or maybe a nightie or jeans.

But that image of you as a cowgirl lives rent free in ma mind rite noo.

An' as ah sip ma wee liquid lubricisation, inebriated Ah am no. But maybe later, as ah think of yer tempered or tempura and yer lovely sparkling eyes.

Oh but tae name a rose, but ye love peonies and tulips like those lips, but ye havenae met a rose ye despised.

Smoke blinds my vision as Ah look about for... anything to help.

There was once a little fly named Freddy. He had a round black body with just a hint of blue and a nervous disposition.

He was flying home from visiting the Saunders place when he came across the local bully, Sammy the Spider.

It's as Ah take just a few steps forward that Ah notice a large gash across my right thigh. Seeking is believing and in that moment Ah feel the pain lead me to the floor.

For it takes a lot for ye tae despise anything, and all Ah wishtae be for you is the best Ah can, even when the worst Ah am makes its appearance before disappearance, before the court dates for ma latest crimes, and ahm left there tae say ma stories, and God sake, ah mean them.

And because Ah mentioned ma failings, ah need tae take another sip or maybe a shot. But no a shit cos ah ain't got time for that shit rite noo when ahm wooon invisible oot of the country, deliciously sweet and warm you.

Why does the world keep spinning, why do the birds keep singing? Don't they know?

It's the end of the burp. It ended when you went away.

For just a few days.

When we next meet, whether 'tis fair and warmth rising above us tae sweaten oor bodies underneath or clothes or cold and dreich, please let me kiss ye, whether lips are dressed up or naked and pink, and please let me slide my arms round yer waist.

*

Thanks for reading.

This is my entry for Sasha's “Ministry of Silly Pictures” — Unofficial Poetry Challenge.

The basic idea is to choose a poem by another writer with an interesting picture.

Then write a description of the picture in fewer than five words.

Then use the description in Unsplash to find a new image, and write a poem about that.

I chose the image for Sean A's “Dental Appointment.”

I used the description “mouth forced open” and voilà — the above poem emerged.

Vodka and missing my wife may have been involved.