Indulgence

On a balmy night in Cartagena, while huddled with friends, I drank glass after glass of their tangy local wine - its taste made loops in my mouth leaving a succulent residue on my pruned lips; my spirit was captivated by the full moon rising that was filtered between the slats of the carved door facing us; the summer wind made a soft ripple at the bottom of my skirt, the slightest tug of enthusiasm was resolute on my feet; the stubborn hissing of the decaying burden of our time was pushed aside, half-forgotten, matted in a nebulous form of a breaking silence that was not even a syllable.
There, in that old town, above the rectangle of soft glowing lights, I had to pause to taste the sweet joy throbbing at the base of my throat. Indeed, it is an amalgam - swallowing the lure of the likeness of home.