[Wine]...one glass, tipsy...

with his hand pressing her waist

close to his body, she feels

comfortable, desirable, warm, drunk

with pleasure in his leading arms,

she forgets steps between Latin beats, and,

as he fearlessly caresses her hair,

she wonders how it'd feel to

fully entangle herself in him,

gradually unfolding like a lily,

finally drinking him in.

A delicious, undeniable secret:

like fine wine, he's a decade aged.



[Lemonade]...two glasses, nauseous...

and yet her heart sighs for

the sweet Prince Charming who must have

parted the seas to settle

in her home land, since he

grins and glows when he sees her.

She longs to be his companion,

to debate, and learn, and

Be, and, God willing,

joke, in his company.



[And Everything Else]...three glasses, quenched...

and there are infinities of

unsustainable drinks that tempt and

shine and inspire admiration, like

avant-garde paintings from

an optimistic, sprouting, pop artist,

hung on the walls of her mind,

in the nooks the grapevines missed,

pandemonium in silent moments,

until she grows weary and parched and

opts to sip water instead.