Running out of wine is like running out of imagination. You peak, a moment of inspiration and than you open the cupboard under the sink in search of that bottle that will carry on the legacy of your current energy only to find the shelf empty, your veins empty, your night lost, you lost and all lost. Your eyes dart from why to why and your feet conduct a rain dance wishing for wine to pour from the skies or at least the cupboards within reach. You death stare the clock, daring it to show a time that proves all opportunities to be closed, forbidden, damned. Time becomes dead to you. Never before have you felt the adrenalin of passion. Finally you know what you want, you can taste it, feel it humming in your blood but alas, not within your reach.

Then you wake, thankful that your last glass was just that.

One Reply to “Desperate”

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