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 goes 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.