The bourbon
curves
to the bend
of frosted glass—
ice drifts,
aching to be sunk,
collapsing
under
a slow burn.

The amber
liquid
turns to gold
in my palm—
I lift it
to my lips,
time drips thin,
as my mouth
fills.

All that is left now—
a soaked
orange slice
and
an itch
for another
pour.