The shot glasses you gave me
sit quietly on my desk
they look used- especially that one.
i hold it between my fingers,
imagining us
A curious gift- one of
understanding, and the common
humanity between us. it
burns me all the time.
i know the power
comes not from the liquid-
that golden liquid at the bottom,
but from the fluid
auto spirit which transport
you into me- my heart
is filled.
your thoughts and worries,
your waves; all your colours
and those sleepy complains
of a cat's, about how
life is so sick, so imperfect,
how love cannot be transmitted,
and how far we are,
away from each other,
and, from the beginning.