Fine, I won't drink Tequila.

Il Fenice

Something is tugging at me.

And it's in the shape of a phoenix.

And it smells like a phoenix.

A real feathery one too.

I've lived a long year.

I've sweated.

I've coughed.

I've even anxietied.

But like I said, I smell that phoenix.

She's coming.

To save me.

I will rise from the ashes.

Maybe reinvent like Madonna.

Either way.

I will be alive again.

Just some afternoon home-written poetry for you.

UNT