Hee! Ginger, no don't stop. You're helping! Actually, I already had gone back and edited that word in that post because I agreed with you. I had suggested "naked to his touch" and then cringed--overdone--

but JohnSweden just suggested "naked to that touch", which I really like and conveys exactly what I wanted to convey--a sense of being made this vulnerable only by that one person.

So...final draft:

Grapes

I am trapped by a memory—
hands slipping across my body,
peeling off resistance
like the fragile skin of fruit.

I am raw remembering it,
shivering without my skin;
naked to that touch.

Old grapes grow to wine.
Your memory is like that;
intoxicating, sweet, bitter.

Yay. Thank you! I have literally been working on various incarnations of this poem for years, and I finally feel like it is done.

I'm going to selfishly post a bit of catharsis that I just wrote. I don't really care if it's crap, it felt good. Heh.

She knew she shouldn't be lying there late at night, still sweaty from other things she shouldn't have done. But it all felt so familiar. Two days ago, being next to him, breathing together, sleeping together all seemed so simple, and suddenly they were forbidden. He mumbled, sleep coming quickly over him, and put his hand on her leg, just like always.

She began to drift off, and forced herself to think rationally. Falling asleep there next to him would be a total loss of control. 1:37 am. Shit. She began to rise from the bed, exhausted. "Stay," he said, only partially conscious. "Just stay here."

For what seemed like the hundredth time, she reached for her clothes. It was the right thing.

She kissed his neck, and breathed "I love you" directly into his ear, knowing unfortunately that it was true. She picked up her things, she looked over everything; the room, the bed, him. She shut the door slowly, realizing it could be the last time she would ever be there. The air outside was suprisingly warm. A night this empty should be cold. She shivered anyway, and anxiously began the long walk out into the dark.

Oh, Sassy, not crap at all.

Powerful, and very real.

{{{Sassy}}}

Certainly not crap. Should we spend some time inventing horrible fictional torments for him?

Lordy. You people are writing some powerful stuff.

Damn, Sassy. And damn, Ginger. And DAMN, Kristin.

Could I get a clarification on something, though?

A drabble - as defined - is 100 words exactly. So, are we expanding the definition of drabble? Because the poems are sensational, and they should not, repeat NOT, be fiddled with, but they're nowhere near 100 words.

Are we redefining drabble, as a term? - (edit: or can we just use Teppy's themes, and play with them, which would also make me damned happy, and which is what I suspect we're doing?)

I wasn't drabbling, I was just getting stuff off my chest, and decided this was the best place to share. I probably should have clarified. While I think that the word limit in a drabble is necessary, this was the kind of thing i just needed to write without thinking about it too much.

No, no, Sassy - I totally got that. It was perfect, and powerful.

I meant, specifically, the poetry; is it OK with Teppy if we use the weekly theme for things other than precise 100-word drabbles?

A question for those who write in other time settings:

What is the most efficient/effective way of establishing location, both physical and temporal? With "Nessuno" I kept redoing the beginning, because I know not everyone is going to get the clues of Borgia Popes and the French invasion of Rome and go "Ah, Italian Renaissance." I was tempted to just put "1498" at the top of the story, which I've seen used a great deal, but that always strikes me as a little lazy somehow (but I've done it myself without a quibble). But it's unfair to the reader who lacks my background in history who might be getting more and more confused.

Also, how much description is necessary to establish that folks aren't wearing jeans and t-shirts, and how much is just self-indulgence in pretty clothes?