The two ol' pals are facing each other.

He passes a glass of poison
to his dear guest, leaning
near the front door, slightly opened;
and he's learning the reason—

why he's standing there,
about to storm out of the stone-cold apartment—
'bout to burst in tears
shedding the vivid droplets

that shouldn't be belonging to a mere ghost.
Yet he's fleeting, escaping the scene still,
while the owner of the kitchenette
is putting back the bottle

    to where it belonged;
    and he's gone, present no longer.

The drink on the rock—left on the shelf—
is evaporating, following the vaporized guest,
leaving the scent of faint alcohol
that lulls the other friend to regretful sleep.