Drink Me

It's a lonely existence by this cold window sill; looking out at the the bitter life and harrowing vitality. My only comfort is the rain that pitters so gently and the drink that sits like a loyal companion on the table. It shines warmly, more alive than I could ever hope to be. The liquid is translucent like a crystal clear pool of youth or tears or both. It begs for devoir and delights in hindrance. It weaves wordless stories of favors and who am I to deny my friend. 

I stare out this window, at the rain. Oh how lonely the rain would be without me to care for it. Meticulously and lustfully watch it. How lonely would this window be without the my fingerpads, objectively prodding as if to glean universal knowledge from it's cool glass facade. 

But everything is cool and glass. From the window to my drink to the people I've come to know. 

I've come to welcome it, I think. I worship the facade that ensnares weary travelers and helps them to forget and be forgotten. So as a final expose, I take my drink, feel it's cold glass and then odd warming and numbing liquid, in stride. 

I feel it trickle through my veins and feel the rain get farther away.

I feel warm and hazy, like the rain, and unlike the glass I've become accustomed to. 

Goodbye old friend. 

For a good drink demands to be drunk, and I've been cold for just too long.