Wine. Red and white. Champagne. Gold and bright. Brighter than stars that give the night its golden light that washes over walls. Lacquered. Pale. Drowned beneath a current that glimmers, echoes of voices. Of laughter that leaves behind frames. Full of art. Of photos. And of memories. Soon to be lacquered. Washed until the walls are once again made pale. Of voices. Of laughter as cups and fluted glasses - necks entangled between, strangled by cautious fingers - willow and waltz. Around bodies. Over heads that long to willow. Long to waltz. To unravel. To shed. Only to emerge. To awaken to find themselves further entangled.

Untangling myself, shedding my jacket, I turn only for my fingers to tighten around the neck of my Chateau Bel Air Bordeaux. As if they are eager to strangle the bottle for what wine lies within. Suffocate it into the pieces of glass my soul tranfixed will soon amount to. As I imagine it slip from between my grasp, and shatter on the tiled floor. Across, but a paralyzing gasp away stands she. She. For whom my heart swore, skipped two beats, when it skipped five when first I say her. She. Sylph, delicate, yet hail. She. Lively. And she is lovely. She. Who's laugh is a song of a river stirred. To awake. Freeing itself of winters pallid kiss, and deathly thaw. To gallop amongst, crashing upon banks and rocks. And echo a song singing of songs. Beneath banks. Beneath rocks. She. For which night flowers flower. Bloom late into the dawn's first bloom, while gather nightingales to linger. Long past the gentlest gale of the most tender night has past. She. To whom I wish to say my heart had sworn, skipped two beats, when it skipped five when first I saw her.

But thawed in my throat my voice remains. Lost. Entangled by cautious fingers that strangle necks of cups and fluted glasses. As they willow and waltz. Around bodies and over heads that long to willow. Long to waltz. Memories soon to be lacquered, washed until the walls are once again left pale. Of wine. Red and white. Champagne. Gold and bright. Of a heart that beats. Of that which remains unspoken. Unsung. As it beats on.