If our Language was Whiskey

[poetry_zealot]

It would have started with a shot of rum
far from here in some distant tavern,
on a night neither of us recalls,
where across calm chaos,
illuminated by indifferent moonlight,
you claimed to hate spirits.


A shot would turn into a cup
(eventually the whole bottle)
shared between us;
there would be no spark,
just a warm fire
kindling off blissful ignorance.


It would only be further fed by sweet wine
set ablaze by the shadow
of the overlooked fireplace
dancing flames barely reflected 
in your still irises
(words unspoken burn
with brimming passion).


White flakes would swim in whiskey:                         
a bottle
then another
passed between us like inhalers—
a brief relief in denial
of the encroaching miasma.


Then only a neutered fireplace,
hazy memories, abandoned worlds,
and two cups of gin on burnt logs:
one half full,
one half bare.