I am the dusk caught in a bottle,
sunset bruised into velvet red,
rolling over your tongue like a whispered truth.

I’ve waited in oak and shadow,
learning patience drop by drop,
until the world was ready to ******* story.

I remember the heat of the vine,
the laughter of pickers with earth on their hands,
the long, slow sleep until your palm found my stem.

So sip, and I’ll tell you the rest, not in words,
but in warmth blooming behind your ribs,
where memory and desire are the same colour.