Saturation Point

Whiskey isn’t an answer
But it’s a start.

Your embrace could drive a woman to drink.
Hot amber down the back of my throat
Trying to wash away the taste of you
Which always stays behind,
Like your scent on sheets
Laundry does no good,
It lingers, like your touch
Gentle bruises where only you and I can see.

Where, why, how –
Can’t make enough sense to finish the questions
They get caught in my throat with your name
And fragments of what to say to myself
In response to my physical reaction
To your close proximity.

But it’s far beyond physicality.
I hear you in my hips
Which buck to the sound of your name
I taste you on my lips
Which have contoured to your tongue
I feel you in my mind
The way you take me played over and over
I smell you on whatever you left behind
The indentation of your body slowly disappearing from the bed
I see you when I close my eyes
A saintly devil’s grin that has touched my soul,
And my heart,
Burning itself to memory.

I listen to an old delta bluesman
Crying through speakers,
Of the need for whiskey
To rid that woman from his mind;
But whiskey isn’t enough,
When the senses are saturated
By stronger stuff.