You poured it, the water, coolly.
On my sugar cube, until it melted,
through a feuille armoise.
Then you smiled and looked at me.
And the clarity obscured again.
Opaque, louche, complex.
Infinite. Breathless.
I want to savor each drop.
I want to savor you in drops.
Inhale your essence from each sip.
I want to taste your aroma on my lip.
Drink you in, slowly,
Until I feel your warmth within me.
If he were here, he would paint you.
Wearing a cape and gloves, on a moonlit night on the Place Dalida.
Sipping the forbidden drink of his invention, with cognac and a twist.
Toulouse-Lautrec and I, you see,
have at least some commonality.
Or should I say we three?