tomorrows

i smelled like clean crisp pine trees
and she was my forest fire.
smokey warned me in my youth
but i always grew up a rebel.
i remember the time when we dipped
down low together, me holding her back
as i gently placed her laced linens
on our bed. even though we knew why
we wanted this, there are only so many
ways to dance and ultimately
we started running out of positions.
then the fire got dull and it become repetitious.

i loved her scent that fragrance of another washed down
vodka bottle, mixed with perfume of the last
damsel who crossed our way drifting through
the party we just collapsed into.
her lipstick. smeared. with vivid insight
for if i left her alone in this drunken state
she would lay with another. sex is but an act
i should really remind myself, sex is but an act.

time arose for another wishful thought
when we lay in bed and can smell the hangover
tints of alcohol still on our tounge
the vodka never truly washes away.
we stare at each other wondering why the day passes
why we stay together and repeat this debauchery.
its only a minute before we can reconcile
and provoke the idea that tomorrow
will be no more.