pre-dathun: ass in a glass

I would like to maintain the polite fiction of our mutual compatibility but
The truth precipitates like white sugar out of solution with
Vodka mixed with artificial cranberry drink powder
Seeping out of mix and balance into its constituent elements
Layering solid and white through reds, roses, pinks
Palest blush to clear
Sweetness is the last taste perception left to us in old age
Everything but water is erased when we die

Soon to be willingly drowning in the mess
Currently both shaken and stirred
Each discrete aspect gradually emerging within the sleepiness of
Perpetually moving broken motion machine of the heart
Incubating swirl of foetid bliss

The nectar of immortality is within this moment tasted just as it is
Regardless of the mix
Of late, I am all top-shelf bottles filled with bottom-shelf booze
Cosmopolitan on a midwestern girl's cheap

Who am I/are we without our combative projections?
Expectations
Misperceptions and apprehensions

Only silence will speak.