Dear Whiskey

When I come home late, exhausted, and find myself
around midnight in the kitchen making a sandwich,
I wonder if you’re hungry, and what you want to eat, and
if you would approve of me putting mustard on salami, as
I sit on the counter, letting my feet rest against the cupboards.
I think it strange you come to mind in the moments when I can’t
be bothered to use a plate. What is it about fresh groceries and sore
shoulders that pushes me and pulls you against the ever thinning paper
between your world and mine.