distance (part two)

Come,
Drink with me,
And I can either show you how happy you'd make me,
Or I can further cement the idea that you don't want me into your brain.

Come, drink.
Can we share a bottle?
I've never met a man my age
Openly admit to liking wine.

Come, with me,
Eat.
This is my body,
Broken (and glued back together, time and time again, as if time knew that all this would be done before and leading up to the point when I met you, as if the stardust in my body knows that it could have all been for me, and) for you.

Come, with me,
And drink.
This is my blood,
Shed (metaphorically, of course; I'm no martyr for love by any stretch of the imagination, so let's just say tears, although it sounds a little melodramatic and much, to say that I shed all those tears for you, when really I didn't, you've given no cause for me to cry yet, you didn't make me; the point is, here I am, and I bring myself to you,) for you.

Come,
We can play communion;
My rules are simple:
We eat bread,
We drink red wine,
And then we do whatever the fuck we want.

My shoulder and upper back are red and dry as hell from sunburn,
So much so that I can't raise my right arm without any pain,
But all I could think about last night
Was how much I just want you to lightly touch your fingertips there,
And, gingerly, kiss it. Kiss it better.
(Kiss me better.)
Then I laughed when I imagined you straining your neck just to do such a thing.

I know you don't play anymore,
And neither do I, my own, but
I want your percussion.
Beat a rhythm into this
That even you can't help but dance to.

(And I ended that last sentence
With a proposition, which, grammatically, is incorrect as far as the English language is concerned,
But it makes so much sense to say about you. It would make much better sense for me to say it to you,
Or vice versa,
Provided one of us summons up enough blood to proposition the other.)

-Dana Winter