From one sip to two, from neat to bottom’s up, from being in a mood to get into the mood, how far can we excuse to drink it to death. Till the very last breath, will you still be holding a cigarette in your hand, and pour the rum down your neck. Shouting cheers and clashing beers. What wrong can be done, if you’ll just have one in the name of fun. “Damn it hit, losing grip, the glass slipped, and a blur. But why to worry, for I’ve fallen and raised back up night and day always again to dance up to the night with a glass of wine.” Flipping the sheets with your legs, you wake up on someone’s bed. And with a smirk of what a night, you doze off amidst the light. Another winter has come, another season defamed in the name of setting a mood. As for you, what love can be is really GoldFlake in the time of snowflakes. Though once in a while, like a casual sight, you ought to think if it’s right? And that thought too, like some whiskey, is diluted. Sometimes when you are just smoking rings, you laugh off, reminiscing, the first puff, the time when you asked if you held it right. From then to now, many years flew up as smoke. Only if there was a fire brigade, to save you from being burned. But even then would you have listened? Because the water is not just above your head, but it has drowned you in-depth for all the anchors you have held. But in defense, “It worked like magic,” you said. For all the times you wanted to hold her hand, instead held a glass, it helped. It helped to keep you from reevaluating. “But let it be for I’m still 30 and fit. And to celeb, I’ll call all the dearest, to drink and dine.” The food smells good, and your folks all groove. Happiest you feel, and so, raise a glass to speak. “Damn it hit, losing grip, the glass slipped, and a blur.” But it’s still a blur and you can’t wake up. In the haste, you might utter some words, maybe a name or phrase of regret or love but that too will be engulfed in cough.