There’s a vintage couch
in the corner of a whisky bar
and I’m drinking you in,
slowly, solemnly,
in a light like melted honey.
Sitting across from me,
you’re an evanescent ember of being.
Low-lit spaces,
for low-lit faces
and fragmentations of light
that flicker and fade;
fragmentations that take you on an inward journey
and simmer so softly with delight.
You’re like a folk song, played in Norway,
at the whimsy of fantastical creatures.
You’re like a rough-cut quartz rock,
pulled from a local river,
now dangling from an outstretched neck,
capturing tricks of light
as you gesture with a whisky glass in hand.
But the flame is soft
and the light can turn quickly,
in these corners with yellow-filled hue.
The blackness flickers,
against the golden-lit embers,
and we trip up,
we strip down and
we are taken back a step.
What can be found within the black void?
We wonder, tempted by its endless depth.
Can we drink it, too,
from a cup that evaporates into thin air
at the sense of human touch?
It’s a memory now,
these inner-city dwellings,
where we once sat.
It’s a memory now,
these warm feelings in
cosy dim-lit corners.
It’s a memory now, you and I,
sitting across from each other.
The blackness has set in
and I can only sit in dimly lit in corners
on my own.
I called you up last night,
but you forgot to take me home.
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