A friend in every glass.

A friend in every glass.

That's the promise.

Pour confidence.
Bottle courage.
Uncap the version of yourself
everyone seems to like better.

The advertisements never show
the morning after.

Only smiling strangers,
golden sunsets,
and laughter
edited until it sparkles.

A glass of wine.
Three cans of beer.
Two shots of whiskey.

The room applauds
your disappearing judgment.

Someone shouts,
"Legend!"

Someone else
drops your car keys
into your open hand
as though they're another drink.

No one wants
to be the boring friend.

Everyone wants
one more toast.

A friend in every glass.

It rides shotgun.

It whispers
that you're perfectly fine.

The road is straight.
Your hands are steady.
The lights are only decorations.

Your passengers laugh
when the tyres kiss the shoulder.

A rubbish bin tumbles
across the street.

Applause.

The motorway opens.

In another car,
a family argues
over what to order for dinner.

A little girl hugs
a stuffed rabbit
and asks if they're nearly home.

You never hear her.

You're reaching
for one last sip.

Your elbow catches the wheel.

Steel folds.

Glass becomes rain.

Music gives way
to sirens.

Silence survives them all.

When you wake,
the doctor doesn't ask
whether you remember.

He asks
whether you understand.

Your friends are gone.

The family is gone.

The little rabbit
is sealed inside
an evidence bag.

Your name
is still alive.

A friend in every glass.

It attends the funerals.

It sits beside grieving parents.

It signs prison papers
with invisible ink.

It waits patiently
inside every anniversary,
every nightmare,
every photograph
you cannot bring yourself
to throw away.

The advertisements were right.

You found a friend.

It simply introduced itself
to everyone else
as grief.