Wine on Tiny Lips

I like the quiet girl.
She sits near me sipping at her drink and smelling so fine,
Somehow shy in how her tiny lips became the color of her red wine.
She casually discusses astrophysics, yoga, and philosophies of Buddhism.
I am comfortably numb tonight as a damaged soul looking for cures in the full moon and hollow bars.
She thinks constantly and speaks only the truth she has discovered on her own.
I talk constantly.
I regurgitate Hemingway, Bukowski, and Jack Kerouac,
and fear saying anything of my own.
I am gritty and raw,
but tonight I just lean back and admire in awe.

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