If all of our souls met at a bar, today my soul would be the one in the corner seat waiting its turn to ask for a shot of the strongest whatever you’ve got. My soul would be eyeing your soul’s aromatic elixir, and the beautiful way the absinthe makes your translucence glow a pale gray green, like the way the ocean looks up north where it’s cold and uninviting and the froth of sea blends into the fog. That’s the way my soul likes the ocean best.

I would like water, your soul would say to the bartender, and I would, like water, spill you onto the floor and lap you up if I hadn’t come here already attached. Instead, my soul would be murmuring to the beast that holds it between tenacious jaws, asking if she wants brandy, or whisky, or something else completely, darling, it’s all on me, just please, please loosen up a bit, you’re killing me.


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