Spilled wine
It’s the mark of a dance that wobbled and the spot of bother from that day a laugh went wrong.
It’s the blemish from a kiss that keeled a glass over and that stain on the tablecloth, on which a cake was dissected.
Spilled wine, it leaves impressions happier than the smear it beholds and signals brighter nights compared to days when the grape met no accidents.
Give me a day with spilled wine on any occasion over taut highballs that stay in their lanes. After all, a broken stem dazzles a notch higher than an unperturbed decanter.
Spilled wine, it costs more but pays off in memories. A smudge here, a blotch there is that yarn worth unfolding, that story worth recounting.
It makes richer that dress of a bride, that immaculate couch in the living room, and that white shirt from the graduation party.
Spilled wine, it elevates everything that comes its way.
Spilled wine, I caution myself isn’t worth it. And then I write to remind myself that it is.
