Amber Falls

Under certain circumstances,
it’s a strange and solemn sound:
The soft clink seems to echo
even in the tiny space
of a pristine glass.
The cause may be elsewhere;
somewhere in my mind, perhaps.
Glass and ice refract the light
dimly cast upon the desk.
My hand is steady,
filling what is still too empty.
The solidarity creates stark contrast
with what lies within me.
The bottle’s blood burns my nostrils,
and turns the dim light to amber.
I watch as the scotch settles,
moving shades across the oak.
The surface dances for a moment,
then stills, as the ripples cease.
A crack from the ice breaks the silence,
leaving a feeling of vague unease.
I pick up the glass and take a sip,
enjoying the burning in my chest.
It’s a small comfort to know,
that even this fake warmth exists.
It is nice to imagine that though I’m alone,
an ice cube shares my unrest.