Percussion of liquids stroking glass,
That whisper with melodies of knowing stares.
Those memories,
Like incense in a disused temple.
Become his church.
A peninsula state of play,
Resulted in insular words
that could only be heard
in the sliding of sand between toes.
Though he and his mind
Were a thousand miles away
From this, here, enforced holiday.
He tried to ignore the shadows of persons
Extending their touch from
Lipstick on a wine glass,
Cigarette buts still breathing,
Couches stretching to their welcoming state.
His reflection in their dark surfaces
Transformed
The burn of whisky to warmth.
His lips began to quiver.
As if pulling back his tongue
For some short time
would create enough tension,
To let spartan words fly like arrows.
But instead, he smiled.
Words were what brought him here.
He was not about to let them leave him alone.
Eyelids began to close
As silence drowned out
The chorus of shadows
That sang in perfect harmony
With whisky and wine.
This man was now an island,
With no flare left for anyone but himself.
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