Wine Coursing

We use love to write our poetry,
Instead of poetry to write our love,
Strange really...

It feels as if something
is not quite quite,
As if something
is not quite right.

But I don't care,
Wine coursing
through my heart,
Blue ink, red blood,
red, red blood,
on fire.

I let it course...

Without words, without touching,
Love's a whisper against the skin.

It does not smell.