Riesling. And me.

It's a nasty habit.
Seeing visions of
what could be in
clouds of smoke,
only to be dispersed in
ashes...
a signal of
the death
of dreams and
calamity
or the rise of the new
--a phoenix
in the horizon.
Imagined.

Each whirl of grey
a reminder that
I'm not conjuring
the uncertain
But they too are
temporary,
as I am.

It's complicated
to consider the
uncertain
under a dangerous cloud
that houses the dreams
of a believer.
I wish I knew
of a way to
relinquish
feelings,
to extinguish
the smoke that
hazes my mind,
but it's necessary to stay
ahead
of you.

It's a nasty
habit.
Wondering why you go down
better with spirits,
while I'm right here.
But the fear is
too much.
I don't want you to be
everything,
but there you are,
in the wind when I
exhale.
I close my eyes to
forget
but the Riesling...
and me
recall this haze
of uncertainty,
half of which
I desire,
part of which I
admire,
and sometimes
loathe to my core.

But another aspirin to
numb the waking pain
of sitting in solitude,
wondering why
your piece
no longer moves
though the board is clear....
It's a nasty habit,
this game.