wine tastes like love

this was the year i tasted love like wine:
caustic love, decrepit love, love soured to piss
and vinegar,
new love, kaleidoscope love, stomach lurching
gasping, choking love.

the kind of love where i run my fingers
over the pen-marks of your old letters,

the kind of love where i shatter a glass
to drown out the need of you,

the kind of love where i kiss your cheek
and say, tell your girl hello for me.

i am planting love, tending love,
harvesting love–
however it breaks through the soil.

—  MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN, by jones howell
I closed my eyes and there you were
every part of you memorized in me better than my favorite songs.
Maybe that was the only version of you I kept in my mind,
your eyes fulfilled with pure love
you lips like red wine with a taste of strawberries
your soft hands on mines
your heart still beating for me.
I memorized how you were when you loved me.
But on God I don’t ever wanna see the person you became when you fell out of love.
Please let me keep this memory of yours and never come back.
—  k.m

Baby, I want you
I want you soo bad , I can taste you in my sleep
Baby, I want you
I want you soo bad I can see you in my dreams
Baby , I want you
Let me declare, you’re the only man on my mind
Baby I want you
Your voice intoxicates me
Baby , I want you
Your touch infuses energy inside me
Baby, I want you
You got a hold of me and I’m never letting go
Hold me tight, Baby, I want your love
Hold me tight , Baby, I want to taste your lips
Your like fine wine on a sunny day
Your love is like a narcotic addiction, Baby
I can’t see myself going astray

- Kecia
3

Haggis with neeps and tatties, Fresh potato pancake with Scottish smoked salmon, and Seared sea scallop with spinach-cheddar gratin and crispy bacon from the Scotland Booth available during the Epcot International Food & Wine Festival.

the lost girls don’t need chores or church. lost girls wear gold rings and pearls stolen from their mothers’ jewelry boxes. they smear their lips fifth avenue red and pinch their cheeks to match. lost girls are made up messes, bandaid kneed aristocrats. they hold pinkies up to drink orange juice from skinny glasses foraged from the liquor cabinet. one time they tried their mother’s wine. it tasted like rotten fruit. they pretended to love it and never touched it again.

I am sitting here, wine in hand, working on Christmas fluff, Christmas angst.

And I can’t help but think that when Emma gets Killian back from the Underworld, she doesn’t even care about Christmas, doesn’t know if it’s spring or fall – it’s cold and he’s here and that’s all there is.

But Henry has taken to making snowflakes with excess dot-matrix printer paper from the police station, and he’s asked Belle for help stringing lights across the open room of kitchen and living room in Emma’s new house, and Emma can’t say no.

She doesn’t help, really. Just moves her hand through Killian’s hair and watches quietly as David and Mary Margaret unfold a stepladder and place a tree in the corner, put glass ornaments on sturdy branches and a star on top.

But she sees the way the opaque white of the bulbs on the spruce glint off his hook. Loves the way he tastes like mulled wine when she kisses him as he lays sprawled on the couch.

And when Judy Garland wishes them a Merry Little Christmas from the scratch of a record, she cries, and he puts his lips at the corner of her eyes, and tells her he loves her, and Henry sits next to them and it’s all warm and insulated and wonderful.

MONSOON.

I sit here in the dark of night,
surrounded by the gloom,
inside of me, my world is raining,
I am crying a monsoon.

Inside of me, dark clouds gather,
my world has turned to grey,
no sunlight for my tortured soul,
to keep the dark away.

It festers like a cancer,
malignant, growing wild,
my love for you is killing me,
leaves me wounded and beguiled.

My emotions are in turmoil,
my heart; no longer mine,
the taste of love gone bitter,
like vinegar and spoiled wine.

One last time, I call to you,
one last time, I call your name,
but you smile at me and turn away,
you leave me drowning, in the monsoons rain.


Ambrose Harte
Scattered Thoughts