Missing Prom

I was listening to Central Park West topping violet over clouds of brie cheese cream whipped to compliment my moscato. Her lips curled around another strawberry bosom, blossomed fleshy dark sun tanned and sweetly bold. Her geisha tongue danced around the tart, the juicy sanguine rasp, so slightly sweet its softness melts away. Replaced quickly by a bruised berry all black and blue plump and full lying at the bottom of the bottle. We were both smiling, intertwined in bed, drifting, thinking Coltrane always closed.