Whisky Mixed With Tears

Whisky Mixed With Tears

The glass sits low, beside my shaking hand,

amber truth that burns before it soothes,

I watch it catch the dim of evening light,

like something honest I cannot refuse.

I did not mean to come this far tonight,

to measure grief in quiet, careful pours,

but memory has a cruel and steady tongue,

it knocks, it enters, it unbolts old doors.

Your name still lingers in the air I breathe,

a ghost that will not leave the edge of thought,

I drink to dull the sharpness of your voice,

yet find you stronger in the ache it brought.

Whisky mixed with tears becomes a flood,

no strength in pride, no dignity to save,

just silent wars that echo in the chest,

and love that will not lie down in its grave.

I raise the glass, not out of celebration,

but for the things I never got to say,

for all the nights I held my breaking tongue,

and all the reasons you still chose to stray.

So let it burn, this bitter, liquid truth,

let it carve through everything I hide,

for in its fire I face what I became,

a heart still standing, though it cracked inside.

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