In every half-filled glass a river begging to be named, rain on a leaf, a snowdrift. What we long for

precedes us. What we've lost trails behind, casting a long shadow. Tonight

the music's sad, one man's outrageous loneliness detonated into arpeggios of relief. The way

someone once cupped someone's face in their hands, and the world that comes after. Everything

can be pared down to gravity or need. If the soul soars with longing the heart plunges headfirst

into what's left, believing there's a pure want to fall through. What we drink to

in the end is loss, the space around it, the opposite of thirst, its shadow.