Manhattan For Mel, Michael Flohr.
I once believed glass more powerful than
what it held. Yet wheat, water, and spices,
cause me to lick my lips, eager for the first
smooth pull. Classical lines embody character,
which cradles the vice. A true whisky aficionado
craves it, hears the calling. It’s where tradition
and timeless stories bend, take their own shape perhaps,
intertwined with the heat. I added two Maraschino cherries
today. I imagine them swirling around the cocktail glass
as our passion often had done. Each deliberate stroke
stokes memories of times we sat together, eliminating
all other stimulus around us, so that her eyes held
what mattered. And, purple, her favorite color, soothes
the amber contrast, drives a bit of the bitter away,
inviting me to embrace the past, looking toward our future.
Tonight, the bottle remains un-opened, seeking a new dance partner.