After the Last Pour

Amber slinks in cracked glass,

slow and thick as spilled regret.

Staggering past street lamps

that spill sick light on empty pavement.

The taste bitter, like old memories,

a choke and scrape and swallowed weight.

An overturned glass, the bar’s cracked edge,

a spill frozen, waiting to dry.

Friends fade behind heavy lids,

and the night hums low and hollow.

I trace the bruises on my tongue,

the last pour lingering too long.