OmegaDreamSeeker11

My glass is lukewarm. The condensation has pooled and puddled and made my newspaper damp. Instead of deep amber the drink is now a taupe wash and tastes of water that remembers something else. The kind of flavor that makes your lips curl. My skin waits for the breeze, but it is gone with morning, stagnating into day, glancing vaguely, aristocratically, toward a night that will lay on the tongue like a hangover. We will get sick with malaise. And our cities will be buried in the sand.