Red Wine

There's a taste to red wine that's intimately sad. Heady, grounding, warm, but always sad. Even in these moments, red wine despondency infects, transfering from mouth unto mouth.

Oizys' kisses intoxicate me. Heady, grounding, warm, but sad. I discover this as she presses me to a desolate corinthian pillar; with philtrum stained mauve, the red wine effect is as true of Oizys' lips as the glasses that cradle the liquid.

And if Oizys' lips are wine, then damnit, I'm an alcoholic.

I can't shake the melancholy on her lips, though. Hesitantly, transiently, I nudge back. "Hey."

"Hmm?"

"...Are you okay?"