A last love song on whisky.

A Poem by Ash

Was she a dominican ghost ?

There was a whistle between her lips,
A whistle that still calls me.

I still remember her walking down the street,
With all the curves and lines.
Flashing a full but soft emotion.

I didn't know her age,
Or her soul.
Nor did I have the guts to ask.
She brushed her lips on mine and dissolved into the crowd.

I never saw her again,
And I don't think I want to either.
She'll remain there in this drunken heart's attic.
As an unbroken ideal.
In an age when beauty is a cliché.