You drink moonshine with the honest intentions of getting drunk. Drunk with good memories of thigh slapping laughter and fistfuls of sticky dish candy.
You drink moonshine with grown moments. Not shallow kisses or store bought espresso shots.
You drink moonshine with album covers laid across your living room floor. With cheap candles burning against 24 year old wallpaper inspired by a Barbara Streisand movie. Moonshine is ancient.
You drink moonshine from a frosted green glass, by yourself, upon the smell of the Saturday rain. Get drunk with solitude and independence and darkness and patience. The same way it was brewed away from company.
You drink moonshine with open toe mary janes and slightly chipped purple polish on your big toe. Living fly. With a summer strapless dress wearing a too little bra. Carefree and comfortable. Cause hell, the bra is holding half of ’em in.
Me time. Moonshine brings precise direction of tomorrows paradise and yesterdays error arrows. You drink moonshine in the morning shower with singing alongside the radio.
You pass moonshine times to the ones you love. Hot, steady nights saving on the electricity bill with wet white sheets atop floor fans. Moonshine banjo. Moonshine phone dimes.
You drink moonshine when it’s right
to get it right.
You drink moonshine by yourself, upon the smell of the Saturday rain.