I sip the whiskey from the glass and sigh. I feel an itch to speak the words on the tip of my tongue, The words burning in my heart like the whiskey inside me. The moon is glowing through the window, Illuminating the satin sheets on my bed. There are cars on the street, far below. Voices in a language that is not my own Sail above to my window. This city is not my own. It is both quiet and loud, at all the wrong times. It is foreign and contrite. Upturned noses & curious aromas. With a sigh, I retire. To the morning, these words shall yet again wait.