Regret on the Rocks

The glass winks at me,

amber-thick, promise-laden,

a breath of something warm, something sharp,

something that does not ask questions.

Irish whiskey, aged and knowing,

poured heavy over half-melted ghosts.

I raise it slow, let it linger on my lips,

waiting for the burn to absolve me.

It never does.

The coins on the table gleam like teeth,

like judgment, like a debt unpaid,

scattered like the words I should have said,

like the years I left behind.

I used to think silence was easier.

That the weight of my hands could keep the past

from slithering through the cracks.

But silence is a slow poison,

and I have been drinking deep.

I should have stayed that night.

Should have turned the key,

should have picked up the phone,

should have seen the way the world unraveled

while I was looking the other way.

But I was always better at leaving,

at walking away before the ground gave out,

at filling the gaps with whiskey and dim-lit forgettings.

Now, the past sits across from me,

quiet, waiting, patient as the pour.

It does not blink, does not flinch,

only watches as I tip the glass back

and let it sink into my ribs,

a fire that does not warm,

only burns.

I push the coins toward the bartender,

as if I can buy my way out,

as if gold and grain can unmake regret.

But we both know better.

Outside, the night hums low and endless,

the weight of my name heavier than my bones.

The whiskey is gone.

And I am still here.