Morning Wine.
Good morning, wine. I fell asleep after my first glass while you patiently waited on the bedside table. You are purple and perfectly still. Sparkling softly and here to greet me with the sun.
I probably knew that I wouldn’t drink you. But there’s some kind of strange comfort in knowing that you would be there if needed. A friend indeed! If I had been parched in the middle of night or if the ceiling had collapsed and I were trapped, you would’ve been right by my side to quench my soul.
I cannot recall the flavor of the first glass and this could be the wrong kind of conversation to have in front of a fresh glass of wine. Like lovers, we may want to be measured on the merits of our singularity. I’ll tell you this, wine — that wine never waited for me through the night. Whatever cheap thrills I had with the first cup, it does not come close to the deep bond we’ve cultivated in this gray and tranquil bedroom.
I remember your label. “A resonating quiver, filled with arrows of pomegranate and oak intent upon assassinating your tongue. Notes of joy, notes of victorian languor and sorrow. An impetuous blend of naughty varietals, paired best with costly, local cheeses and fruits from foreign mountains.”
Your label doesn’t define you, these words cannot capture you. It is our true kinship that gives us both meaning. We were there for each other, we lived together from midnight to dawn, naked and trusting.
I will drink you, wine. Despite the prim conventions of the ante meridiem crowd, I will drink you in from your face down to your legs. A lusty celebration of our lives on this very morning. Sing to me, Whitney. Sing to me, morning wine.