In Vino Veritas (A crying shame)

I wish I had more restraint… I wish you had less, I wish tonight I could put down this glass, retreat, resign, regress.

 In vino veritas. In wine there is truth.

I feel undone, done in, done. You betray me, even in my dreams. You forsake me while I sleep in unwitting slumber. Why does this wine taste like the putrid penance of my past? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you write, or at the very least let me know you are there for me, care for me?


We are two halves scattered in the winds of unwelcome change forcing upon me a new era, not lit with the ruby red passion of times long since past, but tainted by the black stains of a glass spilt, a remembrance of a good wine gone bad.


Sour is the taste in my mouth, sad the look in my eye… So quickly that which was gets greeted with goodbye. I need you to go, yet I need you to stay, the feelings that once were between us should no longer be welcome to linger, yet I hesitate, frightfully afraid of making the wrong choice. 


Silently I pray for a release, but I don’t know what that means. Would being with you release me, or imprison me once more in the depth of my own ghoulish nightmare maze of overanalysing my own character in some fiendish attempt to have it all make sense.


I hate this bottle, hate this year, I wait in desperate anticipation for something to change, some sign or some light, some easy way out that does not require me to make this decision. It’s too hard, regardless of how desperately necessary it is. I need a new grape, a new kind of hope, I need you to be more like the man I have yearned for, the taste I desire, the need unfulfilled.


Restless I sleep in a dreamless stupor, waiting once more for the beauty and serenity of your imperfect perfection to envelop me and save me from my own mind, my own twisted soul, my own unruly heart which fails to listen to reason, which fails me, which fails.


My dreams of you which were once magical and sacred have turned into the stuff that nightmares are made of and I realise afresh that wine, as great as it can be, once spilt, leaves a stain so deep that it ruins even the most well made of fabrics.

I pick up my pen to begin to clean this mess up, but I am left wordless, silenced, unable to neatly correct this error, this diabolical disaster of unmitigated circumstances that has tipped the glass over, never to regain its former lustre and longing.


How I wish for sweet dreams to come back to me. Come back to ease my troubled mind and bring back to me the hope of my dream man that once was…

I lift my head in defiant resistance against my own self mutilating soul and I drain the rest of the bottle into the sink, crying over the wasted shame. For even though we all know there’s no use crying over spilt milk, I am certain the metaphor would allow for a tear or two had it been written about wine…