Tipsy

Is it the wine making her tipsy,
Or the way he holds her gaze,
How he leans close and listens?
Even when she speaks in whispers,
He hears what she has to say.

The calypso music swirls her dizzy,
Or is it the wine making her tipsy?
They dance on the cold night sand,
Kiss in the blush of dawn,
A thousand lifetimes in one day.

His depth of darkness drives her on,
His mania whirls her crazy–
Or is it the wine making her tipsy?
Maybe she was sent to save him;
Maybe they’re both past damned.

Promises broken, promises made:
She grows giddy with his fusillade
Of excuses, but she understands.
Is it the wine making her tipsy?
Maybe just the clock’s soft ticking.

She drinks alone in her kitchen,
Windows misty, grey rain dripping;
Her mind circles ’round his mischief–
The walls go crooked, dipping, slipping…
It’s just the wine making her tipsy.

*

I’d like to thank Kiwinana for sharing her lovely poem yesterday and introducing me to a new poetic form Anapeat, which in turn inspired this poem.