These nights, they become the same. Music on low, the window a little open. Sometimes it’s a sinful kiss that curls around the curtain, sometimes it’s the shiver of cold falling rain. Whiskey spins at the bottom of the glass, gold, like worn violin resin. The thrum of the liquid spills across quiet lips and stokes a furnace trail from tongue to throat. The bedsheets are flat and the door is closed. Fingers find words in a pocketbook, trickle out truths across the page in masks laden with other worlds. Stomach lined with memories, head filled with thoughts, the sigh is for the firm sediment layers filling the chest. The liquid spins, the pen draws a loop and the weight refuses to go, pressing deeper into muscles beyond reach. We love, we sign a dotted line we didn’t read and we find ourselves dangling from dewdrop dotted webs, unable to breathe. We learn how to take on the burden of battered hearts a drop of ink and whiskey at a time. These nights, they just become the same.