hang(l)over

I have drunk too much
of your wine, my love.
My glass tips, teeters,
tumbles to the floor.

How can I sate myself now,
with the last of you soaking the floor?
How can I soothe my spinning head
without a drop of you
in my morning tea?

I find myself clutching shards of a broken cup,
thirsty and unsteady for want
of another taste of your vintage,
and all the grapes are sour.

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