We each have our own

individual sadness.

Like a fine wine.

I drink it down.

Some tastes better

than others.

I drink hers down.

Then open another bottle.

We much prefer red over white.

Dry over sweet.

Though there have been those who’ve poured

and those who’ve carelessly spilled.

But none like this.

None so direct.

Covered in a deep, warm red

I much prefer her careful aim

as she throws the Cab into my face –

Betty Davis style.