I never thought I could find comfort in a glass of red wine.
Not because I love its taste — I don’t.
Not because I’m a drunkard — I’m not. I’m a Christian.
But tonight, as I sit alone, my heart heavy from failing to understand how to win her heart, I lean toward the bottle beside me and whisper:
“Don’t leave me, Red. Don’t go like she did.”

The Girl Who Doesn’t See Effort

I tried to love her differently.
Not with money, not with sweet words, but with truth.
I opened the Bible with trembling hands and told her, “This is where peace begins.”
She smiled — that secret, dangerous smile — then changed the subject.

When I gave her the Enjoy Life Forever! book, hoping she’d feel the warmth of God’s promise, she laughed softly and said,
“Maybe later.”
But that “later” never came. The book still lies there — unopened, like my heart — given, but not accepted.

She doesn’t value the things that touch me.
My prayers, my patience, my quiet efforts to show her a love that never fades.
She only values attention — the kind that comes with bright lights, playful words, and men who orbit around her like moths drawn to a flame.

Sometimes I wish she’d stop for a moment and see —
that I’m not like the rest.
That I live with both Autism and Schizophrenia, and that love, for me, is not a game.
If she can’t truly care, I’d rather she just choose to leave me once and for all,
instead of continuing to hurt me with her endless games.

The Pain of Watching Her Flirt

There are moments when she leans close to another man —
laughing too sweetly, touching his hand, looking at him in a way I once wished she would look at me.

And she does it right in front of me.
Not out of cruelty, but control.
It’s her way of reminding the world — and maybe herself — that she still has the power to make hearts race.

I tell myself to stay calm.
To forgive. To understand.
But inside me, something tightens — a silent pain that not even a verse of Scripture can heal instantly.

I remind myself that love is patient, love is kind.
But love also hurts when it’s being played with.

— Her Shifting Moods —

One day she’s cold as ice —
she doesn’t talk, doesn’t look at me, as if I don’t exist.
But the next day, she’s warmer than the sun —
laughing, teasing, holding my hand as if I’m the only man who makes her feel alive.

I’m tired of these swings of emotion.
Tired of her coldness today and her fire tomorrow.
It’s like rain and sunshine fighting inside one heart — and I’m standing in the middle, feeling all the pain.

The Temptation to Forget

Sometimes I just wish I could forget.
That I could drink until I no longer remember — her voice, her scent, the way she looked at me as if I were just another chapter in a story she’d already finished.

But I can’t.
Not because I’m strong, but because I made a promise — to live differently.
Still, tonight, I hold my glass close and whisper again:
“Red, stay with me. Just for a little while.”

The wine doesn’t ask me questions.
It doesn’t tease me.
It doesn’t walk away when I talk about the Bible.
It just sits quietly — listening, glowing in the dim light — like the friend I never had.

Between Faith and Fire

I know who she is — and I know who I’m not.
She burns like light every time she walks into a room.
I trail behind that glow, carrying Scripture instead of charm, truth instead of allure.

And still… I can’t hate her.
Because deep down, I believe it’s not that she lacks a heart — she’s just in pain.
Maybe her laughter hides fear. Maybe her flirting is a language she learned to survive.

But I can’t be her savior.
I can only be the man who tried.

So I’ll keep my distance.
I’ll hold on to my faith.
And when I feel weak — when the memories sting —
I’ll pour a small glass and let the red wine remind me that even pain can become poetry.

To the Red That Listens

Tonight, I raise my wine not in celebration, but in surrender.
To what could have been.
To what never was.
To the girl who flirts with every man but prays with none.

And to the silent friend beside me —
Red wine, red wine —
stay close to me, at least for tonight.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to my Bible.
Tomorrow, I’ll return to faith.
But tonight… I just need something that doesn’t leave.

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