Cabernet, this one formidably, remembers me, and me her.

She and her poetique encompassing madness make me sit here.  Second bottle in as many day.  Last night’s only a pour or bit more poured out.  Wanted to hear the song again, from cork removal to now with glass and thoughts, the desk, the night, warm air outside and me in here working.  Feel like I never know how to write her, this Cabernet, wine principally.  And why…. No knowing.  Each layer and step in this song is a compass, a directional sway and play.  Fruit dark and effusive, playful and lawless which is why I follow. I don’t want law in Cabernet, I don’t want template… I don’t want predictable measure…. I look for the jazz, the godly smirk driving me down Roads of which I only read.

We have propinquity, one known and seen, felt, more senses than are readily known.  Cherry and lavender, cinnamon tells one blink to next.  I’m in a place of confusion and comfort… new idol and model of Bordeaux throw.  Waiting for her to ready for next track, next sip.  Just opened bottle a bit ago.  Five minutes, say.  And now, I’m waiting, thinking, wanting to walk those Dutcher blocks as I used to.

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