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To the dangerous ones,

the shot glasses of 1942,

the thoughts and the shots

that inspire, the talk.

It is always the dangerous ones,

that keep your mind locked up,

in constant flow,

under the influence.

Drunk on the highs and the lows.

Ruby red lips.

Doll like eyes.

She could be just as dangerous

 if she wasn’t  feeling

compromised.

Sip the shot slowly.

Let the liquor spread across your tongue,

along the sides of your mouth,

warm, caramel fire.

His skin tastes of tequila and sin,

Underhanded way he handed your heart

back on a bar tray.

Don’t you worry girl,

 the pain is always short lived

my heart is sometimes numb.

My breath is always trying to

catch up

with the last time

I had you.

Tequila sips, not shots

She is a lady.

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