Expansive, deep-caped, levitating femme. Entry to end, a smooth saint. The confident posture in the glass allures, lures me. She slides gentle berry notes and a softened sliver of mint to my restless senses. Sip. Smoke notes massage this captured anecdote. Sedating Syrah, she leaps to these easy lips with her spell already in my circuitry. The ripples in my inner pond, modulating. A finish that ties with the succeeding kiss, unable for me to be remiss. Not with this supernatural Syrah, my veracious tryst.
Before the third and forth sip, I again just stare at her shade, her posture in the unworthy glass. Love the night-like sight. Urge for her lip contact, why fight? Syrah, this continuous, tuneful and savory, not to mention erotic, oenological wonder, my new plight. Why did I only walk out with one bottle? Slower, slower. Delay the moment’s mute.
Nose to finish, mastery, a spell, a romantic encounter. Sip equals deep, evocative kiss. Why I love wine, the moment, the affair, like this, like her. Sipping again, thinking of Paris. Why? She’s taking me to past places, possible traces. Her presence effaces my basis, aesthetic homeostasis. How can I write another reflection after this one, truly? Not at all sad. Sedated, safe, elated, much more than infatuated.
(Sunday June 6, 2010)