Sunday, November 23, 2014

Unsaid Blotted Wine Sentences

I see you trying to make out my unsaid sentences in the blotted wine on my cocktail napkin, but the drumming of my fingers on the bar top has got you distracted. The fullness of your lips matches the contents of my glass but your glass is a reflection of why we're here. The empty pauses between sips is making you one sour grape. The pours become our clock, closer to the bottom signaling goodbye o'clock. I toss the cork, no evidence of this. Our final image of one another, two court jesters with stained lips and lopsided smiles. Retiring this place and time to the rack in exchange for a bottle. Your future encounters jaded by your own memories. Sluggish slips to torment me, a quick drain to fill the self and suppress the things you've never tried to say. 

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