[06 May 2019]
We sat on the couch, a bottle of red between us,
opened, half-drunk. I never liked wine before I met you.
The coffee table – dinged and dented,
the cork lying in two pieces and my hands covered
in wine stains. James Blake crooned somewhere in the background.
Along the way, I’d lost the corkscrew.
We cried about art and told stories of times
when boys had abandoned us or we had abandoned them,
but mostly we kept our silence and looked forward
at where the sun had set over the lake. Our glasses –
empty. The bottle – unfinished.
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