Clear as truth,
burning like memory.
It sits in the glass-
still,
waiting,
like a quiet dare.

No scent of flowers,
no promise of sweetness,
only the cold breath
of forgetting.

First sip-
a flame down the throat,
then nothing.
Then everything.

Old laughter stirs,
new pain softens.
Names blur.
Nights stretch longer
than they should.

Vodka doesn't ask questions.
It listens
as the room spins,
as the heart tells
what it shouldn't.