Corkscrew

Love is wine
and you are the cork.
I can smell it on you.

I want what you've got to give
but I just can't seem
to wrench you away from the bottle.

I'd need to be a corkscrew,
I'd have to cut into you,
But I'm not that strong.

And you are brittle.
You could crumble or break
If I pull too hard, too early.

Thus I approach
with the tact of a forceful thumb.
I press into you

Until you fall for me, into the crimson pool.
You are drowned in love, stained by it.
Then I steal it away with pursed lips.

I took only what you kept safe, sealed off.
But you remain. Dried up, purple,
trapped in tinted glass.