Ocean Of Corks

She was made of wine
a wild child who loved to wear red
and fluid-like dresses.

When she’d come around,
I’d pull out my boat
and set sail on an ocean made of corks.

The more she poured of herself,
the more I stared into her raspberry eyes
and swirled my fingers around
in her deep, fragrant curls.

She was swift,
gently tickling the insides of my mouth,
her words dissolving against my tongue
and around my head.

A bittersweet, aromatic touch
her lips to mine.
She helps me sail into the middle
of the night
with the ease of a corkscrew,
winding into orgasmic hush
with much delight.

She’s both liquid and fire.
I’ve pushed my boat into an ocean made of corks
and have lost myself
beneath her fluid-like dress.