2-16-16

This time
Last year
White wine
Tastes like your front patio
Crawling of chickens
And their feces.
It smells of country air
And comfort
Made up of an enclosed serenity
Built by too tall trees.
It forces me to feel your hands
Against my flesh
And sometimes
Against clothing
On my flesh

This time
This year
White wine
Tastes like the only way
Wrapped in caution tape
and stop signs.
It smells of 3am tears
And vomit
Made up of a padlocked mind
Built by too many weaknesses.
It forces me to feel my hands
Against my flesh
And sometimes
Against scars
On my flesh

Reviews

[sinNsincerity]

I enjoyed the shift from last year to this and how the shift goes from being beautiful, and then sublime.