Wine and Wait

Another glass past the soundless hour before sunrise, I sit and listen to my Cabernet exhale

and catch my breath caught in a draft dragging the night away

from a dream fermenting inside another pillow misshapen

on a bed, empty, in a corner of a room: door unlocked, windows ajar

 

There goes another minute, drifting beneath streetlamps washing pavements warm yellow.

 

I think that was where time stood still.

After the point was made and the last sentence ended.

It walked away: hands inside pockets, hunger inside heart

 

I swirl the wine on my palm and inhale an old summer harvest forgotten inside oak barrels,

stored deep and dark to age and change into another summer to be poured from a bottle

on a night in another room, foreign and unfamiliar, door unlocked, windows ajar.

 

 

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