Sour Vintage


Your legs

wrap around me

like the roots of a tree

searching for water,

but Honey,

I’m a cold, dry earth.

I’m no giver of sustenance.

I’m no fertile oasis,

or clean mountain spring

that will feed you.

I’m a rock,

rich in sulphur.

I’m deadfall,

and sharp sand,

and ashes.

The only thing

I’ll birth in you

is disappointment

and sadness,

the kind that grows

into resentment.

I’m a land of stones

that cannot be plowed.

A fallow field

full of hidden dangers.

Part of you might think

I can be reclaimed,

but Baby,

a man like me

only gets one savior.

I’m a sour vintage.

Not quite vinegar,

but no longer wine.

I’m a curse,

muttered in a chapel.

I’m the December wind,

and I’m sustained.

Your lips

couldn’t redeem me.

Your skin

couldn’t return my soul.

Your eyes

search me for an answer,

but your heart knows

that what I say is true.

Find another

to keep you company.

To sit beside me

is to know only absence.

Walk on by me,

like you would pass a graveyard,

thankful to be moving on.

There is no hope

living here.



DJR – 2022

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