Talking to you on a Sunday morning (poem of mine)

Understand
That I sway
Red and raw
When you talk to me
And inside fire burns
To smoke
And I hear the whistle
Of its embers.
I am distracted,
But,
I try to hold your gaze,
Try to untangle
This vineyard of escape
In my brain,
I drift
to lift a branch
And see eyes,
Heavy behind the purple of the grapes.
I drink the wine of your skin
And lay still
I turn my head away
Then back to you
We talk
Like old friends.
Air buzzes
Electric
As a hive
Weighed down with honey.