The tip of my tongue

The tip of my tongue touches the drop of wine from your lip.
My mind is white noise.

Wine and words (2)

She drinks slowly, thinks
– a white, sharp as honesty –
the memories will flow.

Autumn gathered; red.
Rasp on tongue, thoughtful glances.
And then sweet stories.

She said if she were a food, she would be a red raw steak.
She said if she were a drink, she would be red wine so we could age together.

I said I was a vegetarian teetotaller.

Then, just quickly enough, I said I was only joking.

In a southern Spanish bar, Colin’s view is rosé tinted. And now, when Juan arrives, he dances, spins and stamps as people stare.

The taste of the sea stayed with Steno though he washed his mouth with wine and ate his meal of honey. The night would be long.