A Warm September Weekend, a poem

Day one, starting the weekend
thrown in the deep end, standing
on the boring side of a wine bottle.
Red? We have a Shiraz and a Temp
blend. Standing in the centre of a
place worth being in, long before
I knew why that was. Just floating
on faith I didn't know I was capable
of. A voice I don't recognise laments
all the apologies men swallow
unconsciously, like spit

Day two, Round Two Blanc de Blanc
the bubbles and the buzzing. trading
faith for first hand experience, trading
bones for bowls you and I both know
I can't be trusted not to break. I snap
off a piece and still carry it with me.
The apothecary prescribes rose tea,
tipsy, it briefly cures my fear of the dark.

Day three, I overhear a conversation
in a language I don't speak, and it's
the most beautiful poem I've heard.
I daydream about the alternate universe
where I understood every word.
لطفآ دوباره بخوانید (please say that again).
I thought I heard tomorrow in an echo,
but the Future is not here. You may find
Her standing on a cliff watching the stingrays
fly by, and I'm not crying, you're crying.

The end arrives like an arrow to a target
First, you let go. We carry the rocks back
to the river. And we go home.