Box Wine Love

early afternoons, sharing a box
of white wine; swigging it out of
waterglasses while watching pro-
wrestling and your gaze wandered off
to the open window. what did you
dream of? someone different, I often
feared. I got drunk and high on the
action and the thought evaporated. you’d kiss
my lips, sweep all
worries away. sometimes,
we’d grab a second box; drill two holes on the
top, stick two straws in, and compete in sucking the
sweet vino out of the gurgling box. while at
it, we’d stare into each other’s eyes. your green eyes never
look glazed as you sucked the wine out of
the box, your luscious lips twitching into a
challenging smirk. we’d drain the second
box, we’d still be standing. you’d shove
your tongue down my throat; you wanted to see if
I could still get it up. I could, usually. then, it’d
become a game, vicious attempts to drain
each other of energy and juices. you usually
won, but neither of us ever lost. Come
hangover, I’d kiss you, you’d smile,
and I’d crawl to the fridge to fetch
the next box of wine.