Sting

It stung her muscles and hurt so good. She leaned back into her chair and felt the neck bones crack. The wine travelled through her like a gypsy on a quest. It found a home in every nook and cranny of her tired limbs, her long days, her stifled laughter then packed up and moved on to her dreams. It spoke to her from within. It told her old memories of a time when wine was for recreation not medication.

She struggled to remember.

 

 

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s