The World Red as Wine

Two glasses: Wine in some crystal, The embodiment of a ballroom a dress a pair of lovers. Cabernet as red as the world. Coffee in a mug my mother made. Self-identity crisis with cream swishing through bitter grounds. It’s a side-walk café type of deal. Take me to Paris, or London, or hide me in New York City. That’s the Big Apple— Eve’s Temptation in neon-colored lights that draw us like flies. zap. We delight in the fire that burns us. The life of a writer is the loudest: My room is always crowded, some he she it them to keep me company. Isn’t that something stolen from Thoreau? This lack of loneliness in isolation. I’ve made a pretty home here in this city of constant struggles: who is larger—skyscrapers, or the next step of mine? There’s a menagerie of memories on my shelf in the form of late nights and kisses from someone else’s husband or maybe just a stranger I found at the corner of ------ and -------. Dibbling in debauchery: A history stained with top-shelf liquor on someone else’s dime. Stealing from strangers, those stories from lives I’ve never known that look so pretty on paper like roses or a glass always half full. Drink in these realities I’ll paint for you— Let’s be woefully alive together, in the crevices of a world still yet unexplored. That’s the job of a writer after all, isn’t it? Be the voice of fears. Hold reason ransom. Finding it all at the bottom of two glasses.