spilled wine

he dances a kind of genius
against white walls;
all prim and branched out

the fireplace, calm as the setting sun,
carries me
to
him

fingers sweep each other
collecting dead skin and dialogue

we giggle like short-lived kids
playing with drugs

his smile vintage, lips dry as cocoa mix
now moist as dew kissed grass

the table acquaints us
panties wilt to the obese rug...
among spilled wine and cradled glass