Sacramental Wine.

As the wine traveled across the table

to its final resting place,

spilling on to his shirt,

he thought of the sacraments,

with the religious fervor

of a zealot

praying for salvation.

He was spinning out of control,

on her roller coaster

of emotions.

He was looking for the off switch.

Was she the one he sought?

Her stunning beauty

made him forget;

but he had the faith

of a believer.

He gasped at the height

of the sleek cars

as they sped to the top of the ride.

He closed his eyes on the way down.

She held his hand,

and he knew that he would be safe.

He forgot her beauty,

when he listened to her prayer.

The bustle of the restaurant

faded into her eyes.

He looked down

from the top of the mountain.

He knew that

she could give him the courage to jump.

Was it a sin,

to wear the wine

like a badge

of honor?

He thought of the graves of dead lovers,

moribund reminders

of ghostly memories,

as he looked at his future.

He wiped his shirt with a napkin,

and drank the wine that remained.

She smiled.

He wanted to shout

her name

in a litany,

sung with the voices

of choir boys,

lifted to heaven

on the souls of angels.

He only said goodnight.