barflys

we only see each other during the happy hours. this, even when we are sad.

and with us are only memories and these memories go untold. the images of them faint and vague like reflections in a foggy mirror. the whiskey film at the bottom of a glass. the past left to haunt us and the comfort of our ghost. we swallow.

and there we were like young children carving our names into the canvas of the bar. pristine teeth and bloody gums and smiles that stretched from coast to coast. stories of drinks and the drinks that had drinks and the ink on the papers we refuse to throw away. the sentences that said everything and the looks behind them. the rounds the rounds the rounds.

and the impressions left upon us. stark and vivid.

and the sensations still linger like a surprise from yesterday.