Sciences Participating with Arts & Culture in Education

Dark Liqueur

The autumn air is heavy
hearted, filled with spite,
the nip of a summer’s bitter end,
and the crisp prospect of a new year.
The warm past escapes the surface
like steam from a mug of tea
and lets me know I can never drink in
the dark liqueur that spikes your soul.

It’s over.

I will search for the last drop,
in all the empty bottles and spaces.
I confess that the husk of your voice
is puffs of smoke that waft through the jazz bars,
and on lonely nights I take out my light,
hoping to hear your voice catch fire.

The needle hits the record, every lyric
leading to our love affair spinning out of control.
I broke every album
to start anew, because there is no truth to our distance.
I make it on your set list
each night, and some other girl will fall in love
as you sing to her in the crowd.
Hoping to drip poetry from your lip,
to stir the pot and brew a story
of unimaginable splendor that sticks and dribbles
slow and smooth, like honey off the spoon.

A muse is an ephemeral body
untouchable in our reimaginings,
and possesses a mind that knows
no bounds.

There are a thousand compartments to your heart,
like an old catalogue library, every name
a lost lover, an estranged old friend.
And then there is one drawer just for us.
It will always be slightly ajar, with a thousand words
unsaid, waiting to be said- to be read. Our past
will haunt the walls of your home, for we will never know
sleep as sweet as that which commences in each other’s arms.