It isn't the matcha latte that is making me write things like this
Or the sangria circulating my bloody veins.
It is something else
Something hidden
Drought-driven, thirst-shaken.
An evening primrose is waiting for the moon to rise before it could finally bloom.
While these petals are waiting for some willing victim to be high in its addicting fumes
Be that butterfly and suck my nectar,
Or a nice Samaritan, fondle my flower
Treatment similar to a lover
Performance, Mister, as if it's your last in a battle.