You were the thought at the bottom of my bottle.
I started with an ice-cold drink. Below zero degrees. Perfect for the weather and the chill that came with my heart. The bottle sweat, as if the coldness was hiding a fire deep and dark, awakened by bitterness and subtle sweetness. It is always in the beginning that we question or decision in the first place. Why in the world was I sharing a bottle with myself at the middle of the night with nothing better to do but stare at the corners of walls?
That perhaps, is a mystery I have yet to uncover.
Then you open the bottle. Click goes the top, opened with brutal ferocity. Its not as if the drink is the tastiest, nor the best in the world. But you still drink this liquid in hopes of better times ahead. Liquid ambrosia for the soul as they say, though or livers would tend to disagree. As the bottle opens, a smoke arises. From the depths of the bottle, the bubbles effervesce and then come feelings of nostalgia.
There was once a time where there was a you and a me. The drink fiddles, as if correcting you. There was once an us.
The drink froths over. Bubbles pointing out days or months or years of fermentation. A bubbling that signifies its soul. It wafts over memories of smiles and singing, of staring at the rain and sharing cake under the stars. There was once a memory of waiting for shooting stars on top of a balcony in the dark, eyes facing upward but hearts facing each other. A memory of sweet melodies, of salsa dancing and long and loving hugs. A time when I told you the static we felt when my arm brushed yours was a sign that our love was ‘electric’. There was, once.
Then you snap out of that nostalgia and sink into a deep and dark void. Then a conscious knowledge of the superficiality of the froth. The decision to blow it away or drink through it arises.
Whatever the action, you sink through the bitterness and look for that subtle sweetness. As the head swirls in the heat that begins to arise from the depths of your person, you sip through and match the drum beating of a heart that longs. Was I here to enjoy the drink, or to finish it?
The bitterness swells. Sometimes it tastes like pennies or whatever metallic dust must taste like. There was a time that I hitched with strangers through traffic to get to you. There was a time where I would endeavor to give you a reason to stay, one day, everyday. There were fights in the rain, in cars and just about anywhere. I knelt in dirt for you, sifted through floods and fought reason itself. Though like this bottle, it ends in emptiness.
Then there you are, contemplating another bottle. As if the bitterness was an empty threat, and the sweetness was all you were after. The head swirls once more as the heart yearns for another of that subtleness ingrained.
Because underneath all this pining and mourning and heartache is our happiest memories. Moments treasured and unforgotten. At the bottom of my bottle, when all is said and done, is our story.