Will drink the new wine. The only conversation
I’ll have this weekend
is with you. If
erythrophobia was fatal, you would have been
a serial killer. Or was it just me?
Not yet vintage, I wanted to be
your only victim. A true enough
kiss to taste the tobacco
before it became my own. I long
to be the person again
who comes along
to stir yours. Though I can’t lick
your ghostly replies, the scent is rich
in pre-fall burning. Hold the leaves.
What was once a blush
you so eagerly sought
to induce has become
into my middle
age. The gap has been shrinking
steadily for nine years. I hope to catch
you in another nine. Grief—nothing
embarrassing about it.
Acacia or yellow
tulips won’t do. Lime
blossoms too much, bellflowers
not enough. No,
I choose you
because it was the heat
rising from my throat
across my cheeks
to my ears
that he wanted
Nothing more, nothing less.