When it tastes icy from the chill of winter
snow on mountains…there’s nothing
else like that. Crisp and sweet,
but in a way that’s difficult
to put your finger on.
It would have been nice
if our relationship had been
like that. Sweet.
But we weren’t,
you know, we were more
complicated, like sex
on the beach or whiskey on ice,
which sounds simple enough but has a bite
to it that makes you forget
why you chose it in the first place.
Until you get used
to the burn in the back
of your throat, start thinking
maybe it warms you.
Or maybe we were just like city water, treated
water…the kind that was once brackish
but, in an attempt to emulate the pure freshness
of a quiet stream, had been pumped so full
that the adding
made it hard and flat.