For the few months that I was living vicariously through wine
I came to the conclusion that what my heart desired reflected it’s damage;
that I’m too spoiled to be eaten, I can’t live with not knowing
how strange tongues taste,
And that sometimes we’re all a kind of mosaic of feeling.
There was one night in particular:
Outside, I lit my cigarette and cuddled with it.
You stood up with your back against the hard light that gave you the halo of a pseudo angel and
Whisked me up like I was broken.
Was I to feel that in your touch I was but a million little pieces? Is that what you wanted?
Were your weird intentions golden? The wine did the talking
when I couldn’t say how much I didn’t understand your inner workings
Perchance you’d try to explain. This was the same night the clock broke after I finally coughed out my distain for
Your laziness, your lack of responsibility, your growing pains (even though you weren’t growing)
and I think you kissed me to shut me up (even though the wine said it was love).
I froze for a while.
In time’s absence I studied you instead of my books.
Each advancement in knowing you an even bigger advancement in the theory that I had
That you were the opposite of beautiful.
We are the artists of our mosaics. We choose its pallet
and if your heart screams red, then blues and yellows will become the peripheries.
You were muted with the desire for playing with the
Colours you couldn’t make.
The wine made me realize that what was broken didn’t require your mending
that wine was the only way you could be anything but cowardly.