The black oak is faded
by the continuous skating of drinks:
mugs, snifters, goblets and pint glasses.
They remain stationary in formation,
anticipating the next pair
of thirsty lips to arrive.
With every drop that pours
in the glass, reality is put to rest.
Existing predicaments
and emotions are directed elsewhere.

A fatigued being sits across from me,
with a physique similar to mine.
He comes at the same time as I.
I see him day-to-day,
like a shadow, from sun to moon.
I’ve never see him depart, but
he’s always in my view.

In his hand, a glass dripping in its sweat.
As he clasps it securely, like a wrench,
he devours his poison
and without a spoken word;
he is detached from this world.
When I catch a glimpse into
his disoriented eyes, I see contempt;
but, a smirk rests delicately on his weary face,
as if he knows who I am, and the reasons why
I pick[ed] up this glass each day,

He knew I couldn’t bear to look
at my own reflection.