Tired at night
I used to love watching her drink red wine. She would sit at a wooden bar, legs crossed with papers under a penned hand. My presence would often remain hidden for as long as I could stand being without a kiss just so that I could see her green eyes swallow the words and her thin lips savor the grape.
Her high heels would dangle from her pedicured feet swaying like a ribbon tied to a fence. With each subtle movement her toned legs would send my eyes darting from the arch of her foot as far as her skirt would allow my eyes to go before my memory and imagination took over.
With each sip of the grape a contained pleasure that I believe only I can see as the wine is swallowed slowly enough to allow all of the taste buds a chance at glory. With each sip, her eyes widen and my gaze deepens until my presence is felt in a way that only lovers can feel each other.
I’m tired. And sometimes, I’m in no mood for feelings.