Past the Bottle

 
We sat, not speaking
a couple bar stools between
not quite close enough to touch
distance that felt insurmountable
words ceased to have meaning
as the bottle passed
from one to another
glances lingering
longer with each pour
until the silence was drenched
with the only things left worth saying

Conversation returned with dirty phrases
fevered and rough from broken tongues
punctuated by claps of desperate flesh
etching runes into skin
messages for later
language abandoned