In my quiet times,
in my quiet rooms,
looking out
at shadows,
I see
I hear
a world
nobody else
can see.
The soft
Whiskey,
Honey tinged,
swirls in the glass
coats it
coats my
tongue
my throat
It makes my
quiet rooms
and quiet times
more real
in the fog
like so long
ago.
Nobody else
can see me
it appears
I'm a myth
or a story,
no more real
than a tale
told to
a child.
I hear the music
soft and distant
and the clink
of glasses
being washed
and set upon
the bar.
Still,
I am alone
in my quiet time,
in my quiet room
in a crowd
I cannot see.