Loneliness Syrah bin 420

A syrup just a little too thick to count as a balm rests upon the tongue like so much greasy wind in the willows. Darkness covers over the beat when you finally grow too ashamed to use the nightlight anymore. Imagine it, a grown man like you afraid of the dark, afraid of solitude, afraid of no protection. Where will it go next? Grad School?
The dark is broke and buried in a landslide outside Seattle. You've been walking the bold pavement under street and moon lights for longer than you care now to remember and at home your wife lies waiting for you to return whole. But there is no peace, no family life, no cheap succor for the empty life that you are afraid you've been living all these years, ever since the nose.
Throughout is a tactile rainstorm obsessed with powerful antinarcotics I know where you go at night. I know what she does for you. I know her cheap perfume and flimsy nightgown Whatever you think you've discovered is less than the price of a beer, less than you could get from me, from my mother, from anyone, from a roughly sketched dream, if you could ever sleep peaceful and still.
One dark sip will have you tossing, turning, shredding your bottom sheet and sleeping on disgusting mattresses. The germ has been planted now. Half a note of earned placenta with antibiotics grown from orange peel and mold and forgetfulness and abandoned places in the world of thieves. Somehow your friends ended up being pimps and rascals, con-men and forget-me-nots. The blue light of dawn peeks through the themes of sour-cherried ham and throatfulness.
She looks at you like that and you just have to sound off on faint green tannins and bareness. You can't allow another morning to come and go with such little action. Shout your wishes out into the deep wind as loudly as you can, as loudly as you have ever shouted anything, but it still doesn't carry beyond your own melon head. The coincidence of other men shouting along with you is one you can let go, more than you can let the rest of it go, more than you can let go the overgrown bayous and burned out ferries of your calamine youth. More than you can let go the way she looks at you, the way she looks at everyone, but it probably means something more stormy and muddy than she could label, notes of mold on cheese, rancor on friendship, veneer on brick wall.
Stick inside a popsicle stick to make a wine pop and lick it on a sunny day by the sea if you're feeling small. There's a little bit of child left in the finish, where the grape hasn't forgotten what it really is, where performance hasn't demanded a broadening and cheapneing of emotional language. Where we spend all day studying the things we love instead of committing to a system that can't bring us out of the darkness.
Overyeasted so that the pressure is enormous, impossible to ignore and, like freezing to death, dating the rat king, playing with dolls, becoming blood brothers, waging civil war, and wearing monocles, entirely avoidable if everything was to change and not if not. Please forgive yourself after this. You are chocolate. you are cigar box. You are rascal. You are just checking.

Varietal: Ironwood
Food Pairing: Apricot glaze