along the rim of a
black satin drink,
blowing steam like a steam engine,
and bitter flavor just as loud.
Held by the same wrinkled,
sun spotted hand
that held its like for decades past,
the winter mug rises to lipstick dyed lips
Bringing along remembrances
of days like Breakfast at Tiffany's-
6 AM late night coffees in a little black dress.
Same ruby stained rim
on the same black satin drink.
'Ahhhhh, this doesn't change,'
proclaims the quenched after-sip sigh
on a weathered old face,
eyes closed,
smile forming.
Those lips became creased,
but that black satin
still tastes like pungent adulthood,
that stain still made of blue-red Chanel.
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