Red Wine

I’ve been forced to stay a while in this moment;
between the severed trees
and broken bones
in the summer blood moon’s smile.
Your fingers dance
in the boiling wine
from yesterday’s leftovers
and drip their poison
onto undeserving lips,
cracked and longing for relief
as I lap at the sweet remains.

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Red wine stained lipstick covers sad smiles
in the blissful drunkenness of grief. Unsteady
feet have never been as funny as when the
mind-numbing heat flowed through your
veins after losing the part of you that
remembers what it feels like to be happy.