Decant

I trip along the edges of insanity like a salacious
woman rimming a wine glass with one wet finger-

The tone and tincture varying by degrees of
volume contained within this hollow vessel.

I wet this whistle time and again, drowning
in the drought of your companionship.

Flirting with fancy, I pour another glass
of hope but I do not swallow, merely
letting your essence moisten my lips.

Addicted to fear, I bottled myself up;
corked and musty, a prized vintage
store on the shelf of Dopamine
induced desire...

Opened and aired, I soured the
fruits spoiled upon the first sip.

Now I stand swaying with a glass half empty,
begging you for just one more pour.

"This will be the last."

You smirk and say "I've heard that before,"
and leave your glass half full, standing
silent on my table.

*Author's note: inspired by the events of a friends relationship, not my own. Sorry to disappoint you* =)