To Yourself

Even as you enter,
The room
Hums
And the music
Flows.
Even as you enter
With your
Disturbing steps.

The bottle in your hand is
Still warm from where
You last
Touched
It, droplets of cold
Trickling onto your knuckles. You
Can almost
Taste
The hand-print.

You sit down, take in
The taste from your
Hand-printed bottle, and
Watch the private poets
Make love
In their corners- they have alcoves
Of taste, in tune to
The flow,
The flutterings.

You soak in a
Sea of
Sound, remedy to your
Heart and hands- the
Salt is sweet, pours
Into your ears like poison,
Touches your tongue
In honey dew
Drops.

The window is open, and guitar strings
Flutter under player's
Hands. He
Plucks his last
Chord and you
Leave with your bottle,
Satisfied.