Just another love letter.
I don't know how to tell you this. I guess I should just come right out and say it: I am in love with you. I love your big boldness. I love your depth and complexity. I love how you stain my teeth and lips.
I love you, Shannon, because you linger. You smell of berries and spices and herbs. You taste like nutmeg and vanilla oak. How can something so tiny - petite, even - produce such a colossal flavor? I love your delicious little fruits, and I love your vine's hearty resistance to downy mildew.
You're so inky. You're so opulent. It's hard to believe your maiden name is Durif.
In fact, Shannon, if there's anything I don't love about you, it's only that there's never enough. There can never be enough.
I mean, I don't need to drink you to, like, get up in the morning. We're not dealing with a problem, you understand. Which, I mean, hopefully that doesn't offend you. It's just important that you know I can retain my independence without requiring you to get through the day. Ugh, I knew I would mess this up. Let's just be friends.
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