When Your Lips Taste Like Moldovan Wine

they say it often lasts until the first leaf falls down
on the beautifully tragic autumn where you and I are
just
two
scared
little
souls that glow, reflecting the white snow that’s melting away
and sunny beams in the middle of suddenly warmed December
they say it often lasts until the last grape goes into wine
tickling your tongue insatiable from the last drop you sip
taste
of
your
lips
uncommon to this sort of grape that stretches its distance
into green vibrant ceiling where we rest when summer comes
they say it often lasts until last breath when the
two cuddled little humans with gray hair hug each
other
on the
last
bed
of promises where they have been sharing first kisses
back in the days when things were said to last forever
they say it often lasts until the first snow melts on your lips
and we shall be holding hands like we use to do while crossing
streets
or
saying
goodbye
until next time; and then they say it only lasts forever
if you’re ready to let it go, every single moment of now.