There is a goblet, cold-stone grey. It cradels crimson wine today. Lost in the sip of dreams passed ‘way.
And too dry lips drink deep and pray. In silence revelry is found. A shaking hand whips wine around. Consumed in haste without a sound. Sick-sweet and warm, merlot slides down. This is the blood of one so vast. This is the seal of promise past. This is the great door to the last. The embrace consumes what fear has dashed.
I’ve sat in this cool room so long I feel blind. My trembling hands shake with memories of unsure, seeking heresies and visionary vagueries. The most consuming mysteries of what I feel inside. The flow of blood and rush of air my veins carry swiftly. The point of what I have been seeking seems to somehow miss me. Can anyone notice the tears I have carried, even under these eyes where I have kept them burried? I feel so rushed, my fate feels hurried. I’ve suffered from all of the times I have worried. For others, dream lovers, soft hands forming fists. The stares so demanding which I turn to resist. The angry dementia flows in my very wrists. The goblet holds elixer to guide me through this.
Merlot is like satin, feels like that itch in your throat when your body heaves sobs which you do not let flow. The heartache of someone who you can’t let go. Would it ever have mattered if you’d let them know? Maybe this has been futile, all this time I have wasted: the belief in true love and the fool way I have chased it. I wish that this blood wine could somehow erase it. Or at least give me strength to stand tall and to face it. The truth is I fail each time I might try. And I feel all the failure, with the merlot, inside. It whips through my veins and comes in streams from my eyes. Is it natural to bleed from your eyes when you cry?
In these moments I’m shaken by what I conceive. I wonder if I ever did truly believe. Does the heart have such powers to coerce and deceive? If I’d reached for her hand would she have turned to leave? Far better I wonder than know what might have been, for I can drink blood wine and build the moment again. That cusp of an instant with my most cherished friend. I find a goblet in my grasp instead of her hand.
I beg of you all with what I still call my heart to finish with courage each emotion you start. Hesitation has slick ways of making friends part. If you love them, please tell them with an honest embrace. Then reach for their hand and look to their face. If this must be the end, at least you can know. As for me I’m rebroken with each glass of merlot.