You trace your hand across my jaw, like a finger teasing the rim of a wine glass. 

My cup is filled to the brim, oozing with sickly sweet juice, taunting the edge and ready to spill with one wrong move. 

Your hand continues its dance around the rim, begging for a sip, begging for just a taste.

Your hands, so calloused against my smooth skin, a contrast so drastic but so desired. 

Your hands grasp the stem, the kind of unyielding grip that can't be shaken

Your lips graze the rim, and ask for a sip,

you are eager to drink it up, and let the wine flow down your throat. 

You whisper that you want to get drunk off my thoughts, you want to soak them up so deep that they intoxicate you. 

So I begin to pour the glass, 

The wine aged as long as I’ve lived, so decadent yet disconcerting, being tasted for the first time. My thoughts burst out as if held by a dam, a downpour of my dignity into the chalice of your conscience.

I guess my wine was too bitter for you,

because you spit it out, leaving me drenched in my own words

leaving my cup feeling more empty than ever. 

I offer you a taste of my wine again, but you refuse. 

Eventually, I stop asking if you want any, because by now I know:

You never even liked wine