[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.
