:The first time we kissed, I knew I never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again:

The beer was warm and hoppy as it fizzed
across my tongue; the amber bottle eked
its last beads of sweat into my palm as I swigged dregs.
The bottle met the cherry tabletop with a muted clink
and clammy hands rode rough denim
in an attempt to dry them, pressing
as I stood only to be knocked back again by 80 frenzied pounds
of chocolate lab to the back of the knees.

The couch leather was cool and smooth and supple,
judging me as I left it twice. She held the door for me
when I reached it, as I shrugged on the long black wool
coat invocative of Holly Golightly, and I hesitated at the stairs,
hopeless, until she slipped into the furthest edge of my vision
and turned me back from the outer door,
from the freezing dripping rain and darkness
into the sweet softness of lips and tongue.

Euphoria is a drug
and my own wind chapped lips drew back in true Cheshire fashion,
so that she met with slightly off-white enamel as I careened straight
off the path of sanity into the grey lunacy of love.
My eyes were open.