Bourbon

Amber, phosphorescent, inevitable as a kiss 
a half-second before the kiss, delicious precipice, 
breathless like that, like that moment
before what will happen happens.
Opulent on your tongue like butter, bitter like every lover.
Hot, instantaneous silence.
Amber in its modest, slope-shouldered bottle.
Jim Beam, Evan Williams, Booker's, Old Crow, Four Roses.
The color of the promise of sleep.
The amber of fossils, cirrhosis, caution signals.
The amber of wild thyme honey, the amber of shame.
The color of hepatitis, fatty liver, surrender.
The color of the whites of your eyes.
The color of four o'clock in the morning.   
The color of the water-stained ceiling 
in the room where you got fucked to afford it.
Amber as Midas, cowardice, nicotine, bile.
The color of over and over.
The amber of more.