Drink the Words

As usual, the inspired writings from Nicole's wonderful wordlists. Comments, critiques, and cookies are loved, as always.

If I were so lucky
I would swallow my tentative words
as they hung in the air.
Like fresh-picked grapes from the vine
into my sour mouth,
I would devour them
until they shriveled up
into my stone belly.
I would hold them there,
fermented, for ages in silence
until bittersweet words
would pour from my lips,
a river of wine to your thirsty ears.
As it happens,
I am not the fortunate one.
You sit there in your perfectly striped stockings
drinking your iced tea with lemon and honey,
your ears quenched with
deep city underground beats
pulsating from the band on stage.
I can only swallow the silence between us.
It burns inside me,
lacking all the sweetness of my
wine-stained words,
pure and bitter alcohol in my gut.
If I had my way,
I would stumble home in shame,
rather than play the moth to your dancing flame.
But your invasion to my senses
was always the strongest poison.
I am left dumb-struck and drunk.
Always and again.