Whiskey I [m.yg]

17.

I remember our first kiss, but then again, I remember everything I did with you.

I remember how soft, yet salty and bitter your lips tasted. It was the best mixture ever.

I sometimes drink my whiskey with honey and salt, just to get that exact sensation once again, but nothing, and I do mean nothing, tastes as heavenly as your lips.

Honey and salt is such a weird mixture, isn't it?

I've reached the depths of despair and desperation, haven't I?

I remember your angry tears that slid in between our lips, adding that salty taste.

Sometimes, when I cry, I place the pad of my index finger on one of the tears and slide it down to my lips and lick it, desperately wanting to taste your lips again.

"What's that bitter taste?" I asked.

"Whiskey." You hiccuped.

Back then, I never drank whiskey, because I only liked it when you breathed it in my face and laced my tongue with its burning, tingly sensation.

Now, I've replaced my tequila shots with whiskey bottles, honey and salt.