Salt and Lime, a Bitter Crime

The rim is dusted with salt,

sharp as the bite of regret,

a jagged whisper against cracked lips.

You lift the glass like a quiet confession,

fingers trembling, ice clinking,

the sound of old bones shifting in shallow graves.

A squeeze of lime—

acidic, cruel, a burst of something once fresh,

now twisted, now ruined,

like promises left in the sun too long.

It drips down your wrist,

veins mapping out a story

that no one wants to read.

Tequila slithers down your throat,

warm and ruthless,

a ghost of laughter from nights

you swore you’d forget.

It burns in all the wrong places,

scorching the hollows where love once slept.

The bar lights flicker,

casting shadows on faces

you almost recognize,

echoes of yourself in the reflections

of broken bottles and lipstick stains.

Another sip, another hour lost

in the fog of citrus and sorrow.

Margaritas taste like summer’s last breath,

like hands letting go,

like a slow drowning in something

that was supposed to keep you afloat.

You swallow.

The ice has melted.

And the night is still so very,

very cold.

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