I stare through the glass, and see the half-formed face
Familiar and beloved, but worn and tired.
Through this vision I can see clouds drifting
Children playing home-made games, cars passing,
This face encapsulates towering titans,
The heartfelt scribble of an achy hand
Pain of betrayal, failure and disquiet.

I try to touch this vision, but my fingers
Only encounter smooth glass,
Imperfections too small for my senses.
This adulterous touch that I knew so well
Once upon a time, hiding intricate secrets,
Gifting them with greeting cards and surface talk
Confined verse that cannot disguise the trap.

Then when I, and only I, break the chain,
My grieving friend in the glass, who knows better,
May write what he will, lies or truth -
That it was rum that made him say those things
A disturbed haiku, or sybaritic prose,
It was rum from the glass, once warm,
Now cooling in my hand