burgundy

She did not notice her glass slip,
her focus on his eyes like a lynx,
like falling marbles, like too many
bottles. His hands searched inside
her silken gown like madness, like
sunday morning, like one less desire.
The wine, spent like red mulberries,
sunk deep into the ochre rug, the drops
infiltrating the defenseless fibers.

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About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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