More than Champayne corks pop on this new Day of a new year,
the rise and fall, the come and go, the urge to surge, not a resolution for
what will occur, but the resolve to feel it all here and now, the soft touch,
the pressed lips, the in and out, timed to time’s changing, the celebration, the
ball dropping as we take the plunge, the feel of it as overwhelming and the
drinks we consume, as we consume each other, the scent of perfume, the glitter
of lipstick the slow, patient twist of buttons, discarding all that is not essential
for this ritual, this dance, the swell of it rising for the occasion, the moans
filling in where words are not necessary, as we drink deeply this draught like honey
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