The sunshine

through the large

Palladian windows

brings shallow joy,

as we

sit down at the bar

this early morning.

My glass

smeared

with fingerprints

of the previous buyers.

Thoughts heavy,

layered at its very bottom.

No matter

o’r violent strive

to consume them,

we are,

instead, consumed

by them.

Tilting the stool backwards

involuntarily.

Reacting,

groping the counter

for stability.

Looking up and sideways.

Again, who are you, my friend?

I keep forgetting.

You seem to be

smiling at me.

But I

know not why.

Will have to take

your word

for it.

Last night

I was shaken.

But everything

is said already.

And I am still here

talking through it,

to avoid

talking about.

What is

the point of having lovers?

Nothing,

but perishable dependencies.

No degree

of philosophy

prepares one

to face tragedy.

No measure

of kindness

penetrates

through its armor.

Now,

all that’s left

is time and a bottle of liquor.

And you,

my friend —

the unknown creature

that keeps following me around,

with the face

half blurred, half faded,

sitting on the stool next to me,

legs crossed.

Telling me,

story

after story

after story

of the life

I will never see flourish.