So we decided one night,
without anyone's advice,
that we'd make new ones. Our own.
Ours alone. Not "we", but "me".
But my memory tangles with yours
And we are lost in the kisses of tonight
Your name tastes like fine wine
as the oak bleeds into heavy words
like "idiosyncratic" or "attenuated".
Our cups hold far too much. We overflow
into each others lap. We drink ourselves dry
so the rain won't feel cheated.
In the midst of it all, I remember that
we are just echoes of a quieter voice
heard through the clarity of life and anger.
This will not come again. Not for several moons.
We will think "you should have been there with me.
This memory should have been ours. Not yours. Not mine."