You Used to Buy Me Wine

You Used to Buy me Wine
By Patsy Collins

Mineral water with a twist of lemon.

You used to buy me wine.
You smiled and asked what I'd like. All I wanted was you, but I
accepted the drink.
In winter it was rich and red, mulled with sweet spices. Warm and
promising as a lingering kiss.
During spring we braved the cool air for that first taste of sun and
of love. Crisp rosé, pink as a valentine's card.
In summer the wine was white and chilled. Poured into cocktails,
topped with fruit and ice. As light as our mood.
Autumn was full-bodied and generous. Claret and burgundy, reflected
in the fallen leaves we walked through as we made plans.
But you're gone now. The wine has drained from my life, the dregs
bitter and dark.
I drink spirits, but they don't help me forget the pain or recall
happy memories.
I drink beer, but do not feel the sun's warmth or winter's chill.
I drink cider, but don't taste the fruit or promise of the future.
The drink doesn't help, but I beg and steal for the money to buy more.
You used to buy me wine.


Drink choice - nothing stronger than mineral water with a twist of citrus.

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