84′ vintage

by Steven J. Serafiani

I’ve poured a tall glass,
a vintage white seeping into every vessel,
this after bottom shelf bourbon,
recurring theme,
just spoke to a former flame,
the nostalgia beset by failures,
failures to secure a place of my own,
a place to call home,
but that commitment laden previous sentence always made me take flight,
to a new set of pillowcases,
beguiled by a form of stasis,

To fucking want,
pardon french,
this lush language,
all I long for,
fuck it,
all I yearn for is to align my skin,
naked under thread counts,
counting strands that besiege lips that I besieged,
to trace my finger on a shoulder,
nerve endings that lost all nerve,
to observe another human being that has accepted your trite and selfish and damned flaws.

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