My first bottle was Rose
And I drank it straight,
No time to grab a glass and
The first kiss infused me with
The initial bitterness I had experienced once before, then
A mild lingering sweetness
that I’d never noticed.
Then beckoned for another taste,
And I greedily obliged,
Taking great gulps in-between breaths.
I grasped the neck
Of the bottle,
Holding it tightly as the drinking
The liquid decreased and the pleasure increased.
Oh! That first bottle;
Promising things that the second or third could not,
And I believed it.
For the drinking of wine was richer
And sharper than a can of Carling;
More decadent than a shot of Sambuca;
Its taste lingered past the night.
My slender hands gradually slid down
And I tipped the bottom,
Shaking out the last dregs until
I was completely satisfied that you and I were empty.
Alone, I clutched the empty
Bottle of wine, satisfied,
Yet already regretting
The hangover in the morning.