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Description
I hide behind an excuse of sweet wine as I sit idle on the divan, my lids leaden with exhaustion- I fight to keep them up. The windows in our lofty apartment allow a crisp breeze to enter through their cracks; it whispers and wails, bemoaning the barrier of glass on this late summer's afternoon. I sigh to myself, thinking that if you had heard me affirm today summer you'd have argued.
"The summer ends with August and the scorching heat, not those solstices you pagans worship," I can almost hear you say.
Instead of saying anything I cup the flowered mug between my hands and sip slowly on my sangria, the chips of ice dancing against my lips remind me of last winter, how lovely it had been living alone. I glance up at you, sitting across the room- brooding- and smile at how your pursed lips match the color of the diluted drink in my cup. They are bruised burgundy from our night and morning. You turn to pull your backpack closer and I drop my eyes. There is a bittersweet taste lingering on my tongue, one I know you've never experienced for you tell me again and again that drink is the sin of ignorance, but smoke is intangible inspiration. As you often do after sex, or any other activity, your fingers are busy with preparations. They unwrap, pinch, twist, pull, tap- until the joint is made, an artisanal cigarette you'd call it if you were speaking to me.
Idly, as I watch you light up and press the mug of glass to my lip, I think about our previous night, my free hand toying with a hole in my jeans, hoping you'll look at me. That September breeze finds me again and drags the scent of your exhale my way and shivers dance across my skin. Shouldn't I have something to say, now? Are four-time lovers really strangers in disguise? Without answers I pour myself another half-mug, this time a peach colored zinfandel- less sweet and more bitter than the fruity sangria. Swallowing down a gulp I close my eyes, slip into a light sleep and do not stir until footsteps sound on the hardwood floor.
"Wake up," your smoky lips whisper against my ear. You kiss my lips slowly as I rouse, expelling the haze of nap and alcohol. I open my eyes as your lips leave mine, the ones staring back at me are pink with broken vessels- you smile for a moment.
"Come look at the moon," you say, "it's changed."

Description
I hide behind an excuse of sweet wine as I sit idle on the divan, my lids leaden with exhaustion- I fight to keep them up. The windows in our lofty apartment allow a crisp breeze to enter through their cracks; it whispers and wails, bemoaning the barrier of glass on this late summer's afternoon. I sigh to myself, thinking that if you had heard me affirm today summer you'd have argued.
"The summer ends with August and the scorching heat, not those solstices you pagans worship," I can almost hear you say.
Instead of saying anything I cup the flowered mug between my hands and sip slowly on my sangria, the chips of ice dancing against my lips remind me of last winter, how lovely it had been living alone. I glance up at you, sitting across the room- brooding- and smile at how your pursed lips match the color of the diluted drink in my cup. They are bruised burgundy from our night and morning. You turn to pull your backpack closer and I drop my eyes. There is a bittersweet taste lingering on my tongue, one I know you've never experienced for you tell me again and again that drink is the sin of ignorance, but smoke is intangible inspiration. As you often do after sex, or any other activity, your fingers are busy with preparations. They unwrap, pinch, twist, pull, tap- until the joint is made, an artisanal cigarette you'd call it if you were speaking to me.
Idly, as I watch you light up and press the mug of glass to my lip, I think about our previous night, my free hand toying with a hole in my jeans, hoping you'll look at me. That September breeze finds me again and drags the scent of your exhale my way and shivers dance across my skin. Shouldn't I have something to say, now? Are four-time lovers really strangers in disguise? Without answers I pour myself another half-mug, this time a peach colored zinfandel- less sweet and more bitter than the fruity sangria. Swallowing down a gulp I close my eyes, slip into a light sleep and do not stir until footsteps sound on the hardwood floor.
"Wake up," your smoky lips whisper against my ear. You kiss my lips slowly as I rouse, expelling the haze of nap and alcohol. I open my eyes as your lips leave mine, the ones staring back at me are pink with broken vessels- you smile for a moment.
"Come look at the moon," you say, "it's changed."