Whiskey Burn

The muddy 80 proof dirtied your lips, rising from the misty distillation mash like some ethanol ghost, burning your throats with acidic memories of me. 

There is, after all, a reason they call them spirits. 

I'm inside you now, numbing the guilt with liquid brown malaise. 

He's inside you now, guttural moans bouncing off the Swiss Alps. 

Fire. You feel fire. Not from your lover. But from that night you watched my kerosene corpse dance with blue mountain peak flames until I was only ashes. Like a cigarette killed in a single drag between your harlot lips.

There is no climax. Could it be the whiskey's cock-softening curse or could it be something else?

He sees me. He thrusts you off his lap and backpedals. Backpedals out onto the balcony, over the railing. I count three somersaults (shoddy technique) during his sixteen-story tumbling act. 

He hits, lies motionless. Lays motionless. He's just a thing now. Just like me. Your second thing in as many weeks. 

You don't see me. You never believed in me before; why would you start now?

A sickly chill rides your spine. Goose-pimpled hairs in full salute. That's me, baby. Happy honeymoon.