what's your poison

I've been getting these headaches, shakes.
My skin crawls over flesh not its own.
Warm front
meets cold front
on the forefront of my mind;
rainstorm and thunder after a
sunny
pheonix
summer.

The realest words for all of this
cannot describe this invisible parasite.

Art is real pain and not champagne,
but these rosé tinted glasses make this night softer,
sweet;
better than a night tinted a darker red,
dripping rubies
thick and draining.

I myself am
cold
bittersweet
dark
like chocolate
like coffee--
it seems your taste in women suits
your taste in beer.

Would you choose the stout or the bubbly?
Tonight, I'm trying not to pick the claret.