sugar rush.

Minor joint, beautiful
and you are, you know?
and not just because I'm drunk.
That wouldn't mean a damn thing.

and the brandy,
low-level in my glass,
glaring up at the light;
I can't stand the stuff

I don't like it,
not on my tongue.
But the vodka's gone,
and my dear, you saw to that.

You're in my face,
and in my hair,
and the light stench on my collar,
but I don't want that to change.

Sheer legs like the ads,
and I bruise your neck,
and that's all I see,

But you're not gay,
and I don't want to be.