Tonight, the cork is a comet.
We let it fly.

Foam lifts like a chorus,
all silver breath and bright insistence,
a thousand soft explosions
tearing little curtains
from our careful, quiet selves.

No rope, no rules.
Only the fizzing, yes, of bodies
remembering their own weather:
warm fronts of laughter,
pressure dropping,
sweet rain on the tongue.

We pass the bottle the way stars pass light:
hand to hand,
mouth to mouth of the night,
tiny galaxies bursting on our lips
and running down our wrists
like blessings that refuse napkins.

The room loosens its belt.
Chairs drift to the walls.
Music finds its animal,
pads closer,
lays down between our ribs
and purrs.

We move in the language of open windows.
We toast to the soft click
of every clasp we don’t need,
to the hinge that learns to swing
without apology.

No restraints - only consent,
clear as crystal,
ringing the glass.
We listen for that note,
we sing it back,
we pour it over the floor
until even the shadows glitter.

By midnight, gravity is generous.
We sway like lanterns,
like ships unmoored from shame,
carrying our own lighthouses
in the hollows of our throats.

One more sip for courage,
one more for kindness,
one more for the hands we hold out
and the hands that choose them.

And if the bottle ends,
let the night be the next one:
uncorked,
still rising,
still bright on the tongue.