Wine

“He makes a Merlot,” she said

unconsciously running her eyes into his

and laughing there at the collision.

Awkwardness died.  He laughed.

“Merlot is a combination of two kinds

of grapes, but I can’t remember

the rest.”  He hoped a bottle 

was waiting for him 

at the end of the conversation.  

“You wanna take a walk on the beach?”

she asked, not really thinking

the question would be something

worth kissing over.  “Yes.”

He smiled

and wandered into her footsteps

laced his fingers with hers

and sewed them together

by brushing the sand 

from her knee.

“You don’t need to do that.”

He smiled

and laughed into her eyes

sparkling in the purple ocean

like two grapes just picked 

from the vine.  How he longed

to see them ripen with age,

pressed and emptied of tears

so that joy

made up the rest of it all.

“Two kinds of grapes,”

he said, leaning closer.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“One is never enough.”