Soft sound of jazz sways in the background,
Like the memory of a woman,
Lingering on until it hurts to sit still.
And with a full glass in hand
I bear the ache and stare into my drink,
Vaguely hoping that it will all disappear
When I know the only thing that will fade
And like leaves that fall off branches one by one,
My thoughts fall to congeal at the bottom of my glass.
Hours pass. Or perhaps it is years.
I have forgotten why I am mourning, but I am still here,
Glass in hand and slumped in my chair,
Like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
The music plays on, seemingly endless,
Keeping me from sleep and from a waking life.
And exhausted, I gaze at the distant band,
Wanting nothing more than for it to go on.