if all she really wants in these mid-morning hours is a bottle of scotch. the desire to render her tongue and limbs as numb as her mind. it isn't even the useless moments of drunkeness that she's after, rather the longing for languor. liquid conversations with dead lovers and lost places. she wants to savor every last sting--to swallow the voices of ghosts. let the warm sinking spell spread slowly, distinctly, over and through her entire body like the soft fluttering lips of lovers.

no

that isn't what i meant to say. at all.