Deja Vu

In the unwinding twilight
of a new December,
Glasgow glimmers under
a ragged patchwork sky
and sandstone gables touch the roots
of what could be heaven.

Here, an endless duplication of lives
are draped in dusty crimson light
and the whisky-flavoured air
is full of endings,

Her voice flows
white-hot across cold mahogany
burning words like
still, always and care
into all the memories
he will ever have.

Across the room
I cradle a glass like
the relics of a saint
and watch a candle
slowly weep wax tears.