Red, red wine,
you were supposed to
rid every memory of
fallen love out of my
tired mind, but instead
you deceived me and
forced every thought to
float to the very top
of my existence—
and for that I hate you.
I hate you.

But I love you, my sweet
red wine. You are the
bittersweet taste of my
lover resting lightly on
my tongue, numbing my
nerves, and slowing my
thoughts. Melancholy
has befriended me in the
most pleasant manner.
And for that I love you.
I love you.