How the taste sting memory evoked by this wine,
Strikes a note, rings a bell, reverberates down my spine,
And oh how the slice shaped cut in the corner of my mouth,
Makes me realise how often I smile to myself,
Down deep beneath the skin I’m shrouded within,
Split ripped wide open and ready to begin; wet blood pumping,
Pulsing memories like rivers like veins, like roots twisting back to him,
And oh how the spilt taste- sting red flow of this wine,
Is the taste of his mouth on my mouth, when mine,
Is it easier to smile broken from memories underskin?
Or easier to be sealed, twisted closed tighter,
Emptier but lighter?
Let me know.
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