These days, I’m trying to get over you
but you’ve worked your way into my system
like a good whiskey
and turned my body into a distillery
that makes thoughts of you
in oaken casks of longing.
And, though I know I shouldn’t,
I find myself sampling the merchandise
from time to time,
getting hazy on the thought of you,
drowning these frustrated sorrows
in the liquored memory of your eyes.
© Keighley Perkins