At the bar were ladies, made up for the night
and one struck up conversation with me directly
about where I was from, and my plans that evening.
I said almost nothing, but was merely polite
until she lost interest and left me there alone.
I stared down at my bourbon, the crisp brown circle
alive with memory, and with the destruction of memory.
How is it that the past tastes cold and charred?
Warmth destroys the memory of ice.
Ice has numbed the memory of flames.
– B Taylor 2022