Yes, I Am, In Fact, a Closet Wino

It is hard to believe that, once, I had considered myself to be an ice queen. Perhaps I was young and melodramatic, and endeavored to be something more than just myself. Perhaps. However, I have always been extremely self aware, and the likelihood of that is small. I think it was because, not long ago, I had shut the world out, in order to purge my world of the people and things that no longer seemed to benefit my life. I think I found that in order to do so, I had to be cold to the pleas of others who wished to remain friends. It has been a long time since I had a functioning social circle.

Now, it seems I am replenishing that number. The crown of snow I once wore has now diminished, and I feel freer to let people in. Why that is, I'm not sure. But I have been very lonely for a long time, and as a human, loneliness is something that can only be tolerated for so long. I have finished dwelling in the dark. (Side note: did you know that there are only three words in the dictionary that start with the letters, "dw"? I have named one; can you name the other two?)

I spent an evening with a woman a few years my senior, and already I can feel the cords of friendship binding us together. I had not realized what I'd been missing until we sat down on her couch and talked for what must have been three hours at least. We laughed hysterically. We sat there, somberly recounting our misgivings and mistakes. We even ranted a bit, about the travesties of the world around us, and how such a poor state of affairs could befall it. Most of all, we bonded, strongly and surely, with no secrets, no judgments, and no fear of each other. I have missed that feeling: I cannot name the amount of time that has passed since I knew such compassion.

In time, I hope that this friendship grows strong and bountiful, and I will do my best to uphold any kind of loyalties I can to her. In the meanwhile, this is for my new friend.


Vino's Delight

A large cellar, I once catered to, full of port and merlot and cabernet,
and all of them I believed would serve me well, when supper rang for me.
Yet, the chardonnay and the pinot were both done for,
no bouquet to speak of, and hardly any nose save for a terrible odor
that would not suit even the most abominable repast.
After all that gathering and waiting for good fortune and happy result,
I was bidden to cast them out, to pour the vinegars,
to wash them away with soap and salt
and once it was done, I wept, for no great gifts such as these should ever be wasted.
Yet, as I drudged my way back down to dump the rest, a gleaming glass bottle
caught my eye as only the brightest of jewels will do.
Muscato was its name, sweet and shining, tart and twinkling,
and with one sip, I was honor-bound to savor it.
You, my dear friend, such a meager donation you were in my dark hour.
And now you are the candle of hope in my window.
I may yet have opportunity, with you in hand,
to finally savor the feast.