Some Fine Wine

As I sip, A burning slithering between my throat and belly, Thoughts whisper, Wrapping themselves around the Thumping heart. No one -nothing- Can do that. Yet it aches; The burns surrounding The pulsing flesh Of my stomach. Is it heated with desire? Sometimes after, it can come to pass, And I find my mind Trudging in the darkness; Slightly warped- Tattered, But still; The individual remains. And then, (perhaps) Whatever it is That gives me reason to be more than just skin, Is touched only slightly- Like sand between toes, Silk against cheek, A burn in the belly- And my mind tosses itself into a pit.