Hollow Hands

There is a tremble in the pour,  

a bravado that fits like armor.  

We raise glasses high, a fragile defiance,  

as if to trap the moment inside.  

The burn dances down the throat,  

a ghost pretending to be warmth.  

It makes promises it cannot keep—  

softened edges, lighter hearts,  

a reconciliation with ourselves  

that never truly arrives.  

We laugh louder, chase the elusive spark,  

our reflections blurred, yet stark.  

What's false begins to feel like home,  

a lullaby of denial, sweet and sour.  

There is no clock in this room.  

Time waltzes backward, then slumps forward.  

And in its erratic rhythm, we forget  

what the world outside even feels like.  

Hands turn hollow against the glass,  

but still, we press our palms to it,  

aching for whatever shimmers  

on the other side.