Well Aged

Oh, Prose! How you’ve thrown me for a loop? And all these years I have thought that the bottles were there to drown the past in, not to float up it’s relics. But the damned memories will never die, will they? And now you want to see me drunk on them, and to watch as I regurgitate them up, and laugh as I wallow in the messes I’ve made.

But there is this one bottle, dusty and aged. Watch as it clings like oil to the sides of this swirling crystal. See how it settles on the bottom, weighty and sure? Lift it up. Don’t fall shy, now. Push your nose right in. Close your eyes, and mouth. Breath it in like a young girl’s breath, floral and light. Yes, that is good! Relax. Let it have it’s way. It will not hurt. Not much.

Now then, slowly… taste.

Do not swallow, not yet. Swish it instead. Swish it hard! Harder than that, Prose! Come now! You asked for this. Swish it all around! It is on you to wake the flavors up! There is no shame. Ok, good… now… now… now then. Swallow. Feel it down. Feel it titillate as it scatters your mind.

Ahhh. It tastes of autumn, does it not? With subtle hints of moonlight, and starry innocence? Now, search through it, find that sugary sweetness floating somewhere beneath. It recalls a kiss if you can find it, a pressing of bodies, a squeezing of hands, the fear of the forbidden, and somewhere a worried mother sitting up, her hands folded in useless prayer.

And the vapors so dry, recalling what is gone. And the jarring numbness of regret, or lack thereof. Ah, it is a precious bottle, this one. A good one for memories, and so very, very old.

Go ahead, Prose. Drink up. It is the best I have to offer, and isn’t that what you asked for?