There is a tantalus, double-locked in
The cellar - and only I have the key.
It is brimming with the finest, aged memories
Of abandonment and acrimony.
Self-confessed alcoholic. I lick my lips -
Months since I tasted it. How the
Memory of bitterness turns to
Fraudulent bliss when restricted.

This time, I refrain instinctive desire
And place the key on-top of the fridge.
‘I’m fine’ I say aloud - and I am - until I take a sip.