Shiraz

Your red wine stains my lips because you thrive on drinking that five-dollar burgundy.  It’s not even red or burgundy that outlines and enhances the cracks of winter ware on these siren-like features.  More of a purple-blue I’d say; similar to a corpse with a heart as cold as yours.  Funny how two thin lines of flesh can become a welcoming, a lover’s lust, a whistler’s instrument, a chew toy and all too often a gateway towards a past, present or future you’d rather disregard.  So much power in such a tiny being.  With a simple color change or reconfiguration I know our future.  At first ours were plump, warm and pink with a lewd and grotesque appetite for love.  As time went on I could tell you hadn’t been using Chapstick.  We were falling apart at the lips where things used to be so connected.  But as I tear off the old flakes the stain peels away and a layer of tender skin appears.  It’s aching with resentment and curiosity as to what will make them sear�"it’s the salty sweat of lovers and oh how I’ve missed that sensation.