“Don’t forget me. Okay? I want to be remembered. Just not this way. I will remember you as a dancer who could weave patterns through the rain. And you remember me in a sailors cap and dungarees.”
“The smell of this never seems to go away. I won’t forget you, though I may over look us sometimes, just the same. I meant it when I said it. But if you wouldn’t mind. Do your best to forget me if you please..”
¶ 7:58 PM 3 comments
Don’t. Don’t tell me about troubles. Just drink. Me from my side of the cup and you from yours. Alternately. Each sipping the wine of our mingled story until the dregs in the glass are soaked up in the communion bread of our sacrifice. Then together. Each struggling to tip the glass with mouths on opposite sides. Moving our heads to avoid each others. Until our mouths are caught by gravity and slip down to the most earthen side of our smoked glass and meet just on the edge. The left side of my lips and your right. Pulling down the crushed skin, like liquid permission, to forget that we can’t both fit in the glass, but maybe the bottle.
“You make me smile. I want to laugh when our heads find the right place to be. Next time we figure it out, can we rest there awhile? I like it when I hear the echoes in the bottle of Chateau you and me..”
Then we practice our drinking side by side, until our mouths are forced to join. All the things we’ve held on the tip of our tongues finally meeting. The secrets on the back of our lips written in Braille are now there for us to read to each other with out eyes. The wine running warm as it passes from your mouth to mine. And turning from alcohol into honesty and then in to time.
“Did you know that this was the word you were after the night you chose I love you instead? It’s right here. On the edge of my bed. And on the tip of your tongue. Right next to mine. Next to the one I left behind when you were to busy with shot glasses to drink wine. “
Then. With nothing to say we’ll play in the reflection on the side of the glass. Twisting ourselves. Immersing the images beneath the crimson waves of our excuse. Tipping sloshing and watching as we see two separate reflections running down the bowl growing tighter. Closer. And fusing into one in the stem. Our minds dripping like honey onto the ideas of forever that we should never really toss about. But we toss anyway. Like a ship in a storm in a bottle of wine that we will drain to save the sails from being forever stained by our foolish concept of this night and what it means. Ripping the sail apart by the seams.
“It seams that you are trapped. And I have the key. If it’s not too much to ask? Will you spend forever with me?”
And we will. Spend forever. Even if forever is shorter than a moment in this lifetime. Even if I am left clinging to the cork promises I made to myself about next time I chose to drink in a ring of candles and metaphors and similes, as I bob and sway in the bed sheet rivers and streams leading to the oceans of insecurity I sail majestically when I am alone. Looking for any port in the port wine.
“It’s cold out here. Come to bed. We’ll watch the sunrise tomorrow instead.”
And I turn my ship in to honeycomb sunsets and thyme that lingers after the last sip and time that continues well in to the next song. And I will make up new verses. Ones that don’t rhyme this time. And sing with new voices that urge me to tell stories to myself so convincingly that everyone inside me believes them. And I am met with applause as my sails fall like curtains onto my bed becoming sheets and candles light themselves about my new life and I crush less sour grapes and bottle them with the sweetest of intentions in the cellar of my mind. And wait for what will come of us.
Us. Joined in our glass. Singing songs that don’t rhyme. And sipping wine from opposite sides of our past.
