I never stop seeing it,
Her long fingers
Curled around the stem
Of a wine class,
Slowly lifting it
To her moist lips
Her dark eyes
Filled to the brim
With intrigue,
A mirror
Not to her soul
But a reflection
Of the world she sees
In which I’m contained
And ache to read,
It is always the same scene
If not the same bar,
A scene I dream
And dream again,
Her fingers gripping tightly
The stem of the glass
From which she drinks,
Clear nails on clear glass
As she sips clear wine,
Her moist mouth,
Full lips,
Before me
Like a goddess,
Always the same dream
A memory
I dare not forget
Her lips slipping
White wine
From the glass
She grips too tightly.
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