a drunk phone call away

Juxtaposed between the phone and my words, I paused. Letting out a breath of whisky on my tongue, enjoying it’s aroma. It had already started. Concentration was a sip away, about five hours into the first gulp. The feeling was dissolving as the pages turned and the time kept ticking. It seemed this night was like an ordinary night. A welcoming to my return. My sights started rifling into endless streams of dizziness. The floor had always been my support for unwanted weight as I fell uncontrollably. I was not heavy but rather light, light like the feet that had carried me. As the phone swelled up my ears began to quiver, calling for it’s dial tone. I provided reason before I inherited speech and carried out my words, but was never clear about things. My lips were filled with lust and jealousy. In an instant the irresistible memory had been broken into orgasmic participles that filled my senses. I was intrigued and ready to say anything to get what I wanted. It ran in my knowledge before I ever saw it, but it never happened as I planned. It was as if the word rhetorical had been replaced with a question mark. Why doesn’t it ever happen on a drunken phone call? The infinite waste of contacting that person. For why was I so foolish to think they would want to cotton up their dreams for a feeling of wetness. I called, no answer.