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Courvoisier

She only took me out when the morning was red.
I could see it reflected in the round opal tone of my label.
I was a red label, funnily enough.

Maybe she wasn’t aware she only got me out on crimson dawns.
But everything steamed red, her eyes; her face; her clothes; her air.
A tinge to her teardrops was red.

She’d rinse her heart with a milky bruise of my blood,
And shower down her throat, swilling it across her mouth-sky.
Taste bud-clouds, thunderstorms scream.

I knew each inch and fold of her mouth.
The corners her teeth took, the curves of her tongue,
The skeleton of her iron jaw.

When she did dine with me, I couldn’t unlove her ceilings,
her gum strip skirting boards, I welcomed her as she welcomed me.
Unlike her lovers, my lips didn’t cheat.

And she would stammer, ruin the flavour with biting saltwater,
Sob between breaths, gargle me between expletives,
She’d ruin her mouth-home with the weather of her mouth.

I, forever being the sea, the sailor in her, and the ship she cupped between her lips,
We valiantly fell in love together, every crimson morning,
Mouth to mouth.

Lydia Hounat

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