For all that I wish to put to my lips tonight,
wine is but a poor substitute. Ersatz,
I think, as I swallow in the manner of one
unaccustomed to drink. Wearing pajamas,
I stand in the kitchen, barefoot, on cool
clean hardwood, waiting for an inner warmth
that comes only when I imagine you here,
skin glistening under the blue glow
of my dilated eyes. Putting you to my lips,
I fling away the bottle; at some point,
we gash our swaying feet.

In the morning, we step over blood and
shards to make a pot of coffee. We embrace.
The love was worth the hangover.