If I could bottle a day, I would bottle this one.
Bitter but that’s my favourite flavour.
A sprinkle of sweetness
like the man waving good morning at me as we pass on an empty beach.
Bittersweet, for sure.
Earthy and filling.
Salty from plunging into stormy seas.
As though the weather knows our departure and is both mad about it and trying to ease our way out of it.
This day would taste deep and full and rich and probably just a little spicy.
I’m sure the recipe would be an old one
Written on paper that’s slightly curled at the edges.
And I think the more one drinks, the more wistful one would become.
There’d be quiet tear for places left behind,
as well as raucous laughter.
And I think there would always be half a glass left in the bottom,
in the hope one would get to taste it again - with the little grit of the sediment that comes with all bottles.
The settling of dust at the end of all days.
Always best drunk in front of the a fire in the arms of your lover after you’ve thrown yourself wildly into a winter ocean for just long enough that the air outside feels colder than the water itself.
Maybe listening to old jazz.
Feeling a little healthy melancholy,
the taste of goodbyes and the familiar curiosity of what’s to come next.