CHERRY WINE / HOZIER

The lines on your face are twisting into ugly shapes.

it isn't the wine.

although i drank as much as my greed allowed

it isn't the song.

the words are bitter but the melody is sweet.

it isn't the conversation

because my toungue is curled up at the back of my throat.

this is not the place or time for truth,or words of any kind.

my legs act like they unlearned their use.

the silver chain around my neck, a gift

has revealed itself to be a traitor

by morning my neck will wear its twin in mottled violet.

i am beginning to see that we are no different than the fruit-

sweet glesh encasing a pit of poison.

my knees betray my balance.

I spill my quiet revelation onto the carpet.

this is not the place for words.

a wince, a fist, a splatter.

I do not run.

the conversation isn't over yet.

a gasp, while knuckles, a pulse tight against my own.

cherry wine is not a love song,

but a lullaby for the sick.

and we let it play to fill the sily of our conversation.

like my skin, the furniture in the room

knows the conclusion all too well.

but the cherries in the bowl are left unscathed.

with lips stained red, i reach for one

then another 

and another

I choke on my greed

but i do not spit it out.