Music
In the hands of the beholder
Slowly my index finger rubs along the edge of the crystal glass.
Each visit to my lips, the malt growing lesser.
Until only the ghost of the scotch remains.
The crystal humming for me.
Listening to the patter of the falling rain, adds rhythm to the tone.
As the smoke of cigar sinuously seeks height for display.
The aroma of whiskey and tobacco intermingle.
Reminding me of days of yesterday.
Threads of moonlight fight their way, through window shades.
Casting blue luminosity to backlight the smoke threads.
Patterning the tabletop and floorboards.
Lines the tone caress in movement.
At the moment, the glass rim, your buttons edge.
The tone, your singing voice of approval.
The rhythm, your motions sway.
Moonlight, Oceans waves.
Your moans ride memories way.
Another glass, I pour.
To help me towards mornings light.
The crystal hum does play.
