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November 15, 2015

You are a vintage when I miss you, rich
red heady wine, a rush of softness in
my mind, my inhibitions falling fast
asleep or diving headlong into vein
and pulse to pound against my heart. “Go forth,”
they cry to tears, “go forth and kiss his lips,
remind him of the touch of warmth he dreams
of always touching.” Oh, the longer you
are gone the richer pours the wine, the darker
falls the grape, the thicker fall my tears
until they taste of ecstasy and pain,
when oh, I wish they tasted more like you.

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