The cork sits in the palm of my hand, and the wine glass could have lips, cherry red, and could kiss me into a writing mood.
So I let it.
I let the wine listen to me type in earnest, each finger desperately exhaling my tapestry of life in letters and numbers I have fallen deeply in love with.
The red stain of the glass runs wild, I wonder if it will ever wash clean, I wonder if the glass will ever tire of the wine I pour into it and break into tiny pieces for my carpet to swallow whole- red drippings chipped, the carpet a mix of feral fibers and subdued strands that temper my toes, temper the muscles of my back when I choose to lie down and stare at the ceiling like all the white flecks will accumulate into a compass rose for my traveling mood.
Outside a city plane flies low, my walls corner the sound and remind me of my flight. To London. London calling. London the place where I might find my inner Hemingway, or inner drunk, or inner something that could be more than something and way more than nothing.
And if these walls were translucent you would see me sipping this wine, awash in the glow of my computer and its fancy face, looking deeply into the typing of my own thoughts, precariously tipped on the edge of madness with one toe on the safe side, dressed in jeans and a button down faded like my wintry coat of confusion and confidence emerging, hair styled to appease the reflection in the mirror above my tepid desk that warms itself with my imagination and wine-wrought breath, a piano, melancholy tune wrapped around me like snowflake sounds falling in a somewhere forest, and I write to my inner tempest without voicing anything, only typing, always typing, clicking away in a night void of stars but filled with all the sparkles of me.