Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

young wine, it is a shame that you will never learn the true glory of life, for I am drinking you far too soon.

You will never experience the undertones of blackberry and the ripe aroma of currants. You will never feel the smooth release of the perfect symphony. No, your notes will remain messy and sour. Your chorus will always stutter. And they will all be young tarts singing soprano with too much make-up, and too much attitude.

I will be left with a bad taste in my mouth because I am putting up with you.

Still, I have the fine wines for when I will not be drinking alone. For I am too ashamed to admit to others that I would drink this young wine before her time.

I open the bottle. I drink it all down, greedily. I grimace at what I am doing. I can't help myself, because the best way to clear the aftertaste is another glass.

Young wine, I'm sorry I've spoiled your expectations. I'm sure, in time, we could have crafted a social symphony together. Women would have been dazzled. Men would have nodded their heads in approval. And children would have been born from the memory of your perfect song in the moonlight, in that way that cherished memories have of holding people together.

Young wine, I'm lying. I'm not sorry. You may be too tart, and too rough on my pallate. But you're all mine, and sometimes I like to be a spoiler of wines.

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