oh the things brought on
by the flow of alcohol;
how interesting to sit back
to blend in, to soak it all in,
waiting for the moment
when the unsaid becomes said
and the secret so long kept
is spilled
splashing across everyone,
like a laxly held glass of wine;
it can not be taken back;
it can not become unsaid again,
leaving the only solace possible
that perhaps it won’t be remembered
come tomorrow
after the afterglow has worn off
and only the throbbing remains.