You were convinced that my three glasses of scotch were to blame for my jagged driving. But I must say, asphalt isn't nearly as appealing as learning the rhythm of your lips when they're moving, or how many times you run your hands through your sweated out waves in a five minute interval. I remember how you blacked out the room so I couldn't even catch a glimpse of your naked body when I was writing my name between your thighs. I could taste your history in your kiss; a bitter taste I had once known so well. I ran my fingertips over your perfectly sculpted curves and read you like brail. Who made you like this? Past lovers had molded you into a woman that even I, after one taste, knew you were not. When were you taught that your bare skin and stripped down silhouette were shy of a masterpiece? What I would give to study your visage in every hour of the sunlight. What I would do to have you for one more night; sober, unfiltered, watching the candlelight dance across your profile as my fingertips rewrite your story.