The Stale Wine

Stale wine
touching lips he never will again.
Creaks and raindrops.
Air heavy with a noxious smell.
I layered a blanket barely useful and wished there was hope to dream. Frightened and mourning.
Un-rested and malnourished.
I lay alone.
The stale wine that sat on the cluttered dirty counter enticed without any sanity.
I will regret tomorrow,
but I still reach for the glass rinsed;
not washed.
I am already ashamed of myself.
Maybe there's just a little bit of what's keeping me awake left but,
it's just stale wine.
The most sour grapes on the vine.
Blurring a truth that cannot be undone.
Remembering when it was fresh and crisp only trickles in the concern that I was foolish once again.
Like this drink
he barely wanted me to think.
To know.
To stand without leaning on another.
I was strong and independent.
I should have never spent any time with stale wine.
Blame it on desperation to see joy in my misfortunate life.
I only filled the glass wanting to forget how I loved another.
The entire time I spent with stale wine all I did was think of my grail of a drink.
Allowing confusion.
Crying in showers.
Trying to deny who I want the most.
By the time I was done with stale wine I saw the chance of true,
but inappropriate love was already down the drain.
It should have been the old bitter viscosity.
All I have is a hangover truth:
better to love what you cannot have than to force down disgusting, eager, con-artist delusion.
Snap out of it.
I only prolonged the pain.
Fuck you stale wine.
You were never were good for anything at all other than making me hate myself.