Id fancy myself a scientist if it were an intentional affair-
but loving eyes, most often (for me), and in time, turn to scowling ones, or twos , or threes-
I've spent more than my fair share of time chasing this idea of unchanging eyes, eyes that stare consistently and never turn to narrow slits, the edges of which being sharp enough to pierce the thickest of hides, but there's been no end to this trail, and no dulling of these edges. This gimp I have, of crossing wires and electrocuting myself, has instilled a certain fear, and poignant is its stink and burn. But its foulness is not without character, like any good whiskey, it burns but there is some satisfaction to its bite. But unlike a good whiskey it is unpredictable in its far reaching effects. With the juice of the barley ill fall to the ground with a smile on my face, and wake with a frown, but the bite of these women comes days, months, even years after they've been ingested and purged, and is much more abrasive than the pains of an aching liver.
But so intoxifying are the effects of their sweet words and quaint laughs, crooked smiles and nuances, im drawn back and they're uncorked, sucked down and im weak, twice as much as the last time. They play a game against one another, these girls, these bottles of affection and nicety- without even knowing each-other as poisonous to the memory of the next, or last, and I suppose they arent the poison, its their memory,my memory. It comes back, the sweet parts, and the bitter parts as poetry, and all at once the taste of the bottle in hand is cheap, its not the same. And "oh it will never be the same!" the old girl sings, and while I know it, I refuse it and go on foolishly drinking from both. My hangover is their scowls.
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