you tasted beautifully
of last night’s merlot,


sticky-sweet blackberry
and pears
dancing atop like
sugared fairies
buried underneath
the dust of the bed,


and yet again all is quiet,
except for the hiss of your finger
around the salty rim
of the wineglass.

you sound like two dirty serpents
whistling together
with dead skin;
this old red alcohol
dying on these lips

you sound like me before
I turn off the lights.

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