The aftertaste of Jack Daniel’s Honey is tantalizing. I love honey. How thick and sticky it is, and how consistent! Composed of molecules that leap out of their atomic inclination: they are supposed to taste sweet, but they also end up becoming addictive aphrodisiacs. Honey excites my temptations, making me want to lick it off the skin that has taken the role of a host for it.
I share honey shots with people who lack the ability to stick around.
If you spill some of it on your white shirt, for instance, it’s okay. I’ll keep sucking it until all that’s left is the smell of my bourbon infested spit. The stain will show, but it won’t be as yellow as it was when the beverage first touched the cheap fabric, the fabric that tries to hide what’s clearly visible under its transparency. People will know that you are clean but just a bit clumsy, perhaps even carefree.
Sometimes I imagine what it would feel like to swim in a pool full of honey. I can see myself struggling to move my arms and legs as the honey tries to submerge me fully under it’s golden hues. Most of the time, I imagine how the honey would taste on your skin, since your skin is tasteless. You never moan; you just control every moment and movement until you come, or until I pretend to. I drown in my thoughts afterwards, fucked with my own sanity as I try to make sense out of the smells and tastes I am left with. Things can’t be reversed: I love being held hostage by the ones I hate the most.
The mess the Honey leaves is lovable, and I love you more through all that we never shared. I am foolish when sweetness takes over my numbness, and in darkness we will both greet the tasteless notions of rudimentary life. I will point at the roads I usually follow, the ones which lead to the bars with Jack Daniels’s Honey, the ones you loathe; and I will hold you in a tight embrace, then apologize for smothering you. Sometimes the shots transform into drinks, and I savor the taste of your mouth, when you hesitantly answer “no” to my “do you mind if I kiss you?”
I can’t rid my taste buds from the taste of your skin – even though I actually taste myself, the honey left on my lips. Leave me as I am at the bar, lost in my thoughts, savoring the taste of leftover love taking over my fucked up mental state.
There is the kind of love I give and the kind of love you give, and they do not meet at crossroads – they’re just different types of love. But we are only accepting what was not meant to last. If we ever have honey shots together, know that I’d like you to be as sticky as the substance is on my lips. And if you’re too thick to understand the obvious, here’s what I mean: You are my remedy.