I refuse to sign divorce papers served to me by the lime in my drink

You make thinking incredibly simple. I focus on you so intensely people ask me if I’m doing okay. I look at you and abandon the conversation I was part of before I looked at you. You’re saturated with sugar by now. What happens to you after we’re done? I look forward to you. I drink to get to you. I get to drink to you. When I watch you emerge from water I’m reminded that everything is water. Life is controversy and you are the antidote, perfect harmony between what is right and what is wrong and what is written. I lock eyes with you and our eyes stay locked. Someone who’s not you asks something of me and that something only registers after three or four attempts. With you I can sit into a natural groove and be ok if nothing emerges from it. You make me want to write for fun. It’s gross to hold you in my mouth in public. I do it anyway. I order drinks to meet you again, even though I am unsure I’ll like many of them. You have influence over how I end up. I’ll end up upside down. We laugh together at the thought as people realize I’m gross when I spit you out of my mouth. You’re as nasty as I am now, braiding our strings together tightly and eternally. When sugar gets into you I’m eagerness born, killed, and revived. You’re an intimate transfer. I’ll say that again. You’re an intimate transfer. You secretly want to climb out of this cup and I do too. Luckily, you and I will keep all of these secrets.