Communion

You meet me halfway,
bending your wrist, fluent in gravity.
I taste what you pour and smile.
I don’t know what empty tastes like 
neither do you,
by the way you pour your bottle.

You look me in the eyes 
in a silent toast.
It doesn’t matter why I am drinking,
but it’s understood you’re with me.

The weight of the glass slams against 
the bar.
It lands like it should’ve cracked,
broke open waiting to be refilled
in some bar between hunger and thirst.
Your laugh tastes like whiskey,
strong enough to make me forget,
something strong enough to keep 
the lights on.

You bend your wrist again 
and begin to pour.
You don’t ask
you just look me in the eyes
the kind of look that stays,
without knowing it until later.

You know just when to stop,
meeting me halfway,
like we’ve both been here before.
I taste what you pour 
again,
and again,
and again.
Anticipation pulled down
and poured slow 
into a cup shaped like happiness.
And I drink it,
like it’s memorized 
every part of me
fluent in your gravity,
and mine.