Un verre d'amour

Spend quality time alone with me,
For I was harvested to be tasted
By your seasoned lips.
Now I yearn for you to sniff my bouquet,
To trade melancholy for mellow folly.

I too am forty grueling years in the making,
Escaping wrinkled demise and fruit flies
On a tangled vine,
Barely spared from cruel, tannic mocking
By beautiful ones plumped by Provençal sun.

Plucked, I was tucked away in dank, wooden interiors,
Agonizing over my inferior, altered state --
A liquid fate --
Aching in an oak cell dark like my fermented spirit,
Splintered memories split amid sharp taps and nasal tones.

Now that our destinies have converged,
Savor my robust and earthy notes,
Rolling red, wee waves
Over ridgy palate and fleshy tongue,
Tickling, trickling down the pink of your throat.

Liberate me if you dare from ce verre
Warmed by your tender palm caressing
Feminine contours,
By my trapped heartbeat that threatens to shatter
A fantasy of serenading you in burgundy allure.

I throb beneath the hard rim and your stare,
Painfully aware that you have paused --
Six seconds, pour moi --
To drink in your virile, rippling reflection.

Rouge erections swelling inside a fondled glass,
I am aiming nine fluid ounces to bounce in your
French-kiss-deprived mouth.
No emotional bribery, here, as with autre femmes --
Clutch the stem to imbibe me without spitting out!

While last-call waifs snicker beneath 4 a.m. stars,
Their virtue flickering like vintage glass signage
Blinking neon blue,
I am embracing from inside as hope shimmers in pooling eyes
Of a barman thirsty for advice bottled-up for emotional rescue.