A Toast - Xerxes

Stare at the silver of an empty flask.

Ponder the use of a gift you can’t give back.

Time spent on highways north of home,

sliding up 65 in heavy snow.

My mind is a kiss that’s soaked in beer,

an honest exchange of heat in December air,

but even in the cold I can almost feel your hands

in my hair and mine on the steering wheel.

So what are we now?

A hunger satisfied?

A champagne toast towards an honest try?

An eye turned spring or an oncoming sunrise?

An absence of pain or a poison that’s mostly self-prescribed?

Are we just the silenced howl?

Are we just the painted clouds?

Are we slowly fading down behind the reddest doubt?

Are we just the bastard hope as we’re lowered into the ground?

While the day turns the page and last sunlight burns out.

Stare at the silver of an empty flask.

Ponder the use of a gift you can’t give back.

Time spent on highways north of home,

sliding up 65, one last goodbye.