Red Wine

There are some very exquisite moments that I think I could write books about. I read my mother's journal once and it compared her relationship to red wine, something of pungency and culinary eloquence, a sharpness on the tongue but a sweetness in the throat. I remember the man she compared it to, tall handsome and highbrow, and I remember the wine, a vintage merlot. I would compare you to the lipstick stains on glasses and the fingerprints on stems, that often take several washes to remove. I would compare you to the stinging feeling of red wine on chapped lips, or the bitter bit on the back on the tongue before I swallow it. You're the cabernet sauviognon I bought for six dollars and drank for two weeks. Anyway, there are some exquisite moments I think I could write books about. I could write about his body in my bed, hell I have, I could write about one night like it was forty, forty days and nights of him with his neck against my mattress and our bodies coiled together like rattlesnakes, or wires. I remember every second so poignantly, the quiet darkness, the buzz between our ankles and his toes crawling through the sheets toward me. I could write a novel about the sound of crickets and his breath on me, walls and scalps and plaid blankets and cold sheets and bellies and backs.