I feel the cold kiss
of the beer glass
as I sip at the bar,
a bitter brew I knew
coming I would taste,
yet still came,
this warm night in
May
more than a week after my birthday,
the chill tip of the
glass like a bitter kiss,
the feel of good bye,
the remote look in her eyes
as she sits on the
stool beside mine
her attention turning in every direction
n except the one I'm in,
her lips moist with the taste
of a vintage I ache
to taste,
but has become a rare year
I suspect I may never taste again,
regardless of how much I hunger for it,
the taste of my drink
like that brew Christ
drank
in that painful
garden long, long ago,
HE as I knowing the
pain
of what must come
next,
the chill of the lips lost forever.
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