I imagine the way you taste
must be like wine,
the fruit of your lips
crushed against mine,
the pop and sweetsour
of you on my tongue.
Tonight,
damn the coming hangover,
I will get drunk
on your kisses.
About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
