work with your own ghost
when you're dead she'll still be here
singing your praises

kiss your beloved
your ship may set sail today
into dark waters

I remember smelling the cheap wine we drank in college, so sweet it would make me gag now. It was called Ripple and was favored by winos, a class of people I knew absolutely nothing about, but we were liberal hippies and thought we should identify with the underdogs. At parties we drank Ripple a lot, because of the other quality it possessed – it was cheap. But I remember one party when I was introduced to other flavors, a dark party held in someone's third floor apartment, lit by blue lava lamps and the glow from the neon tetras in the dirty fish tank. An older guy came to the party – he was 30 at least – bringing with him a bottle of Scotch; he wore an army jacket and his hair in a ponytail. From this description you can tell that he was cool and all the girls wanted him, including me. My ego swelled to the exact same size as my fear when his eyes – and his hands – chose me. He smelled like leather and cigarettes when he kissed me, and underneath was the smell of dark wild masculinity, a thrilling smell that shrieked danger danger, and which of course I chose to ignore.