Robust amber hue and my nostrils are at a salute. Hot, peppery, gingery aroma clears the sinuses. Grapefruit pings a far away vessel on the edge of the horizon. In a row boat filled with peaches, the pit I have rolled around in my mouth a hundred times, I am salt pulled reluctantly from the seeping shoreline, salt pulled from the core of peach guts. Salty finish keeps my lips dry, tongue wet. Rolling the tongue along the crest of each wave anchored in crunchy mouthfeel of salted, lime-soaked Tostitos. I am finished now, around the lip of empty bottles under the skyline of an orange sun, I am not the salt. I am done.
blorgons 