A shadow grips the bottle’s neck, Golden glass sweating in the cold, Each sip a whispered surrender, Lost beneath the weight of breath and smoke. The hat sags low, Red velvet stained by frost and dusk, Eyes sunk deep, waiting for dawn’s cruel trick To light the empty road. Steam ghosts from parted lips, Thin and rising like prayers— Or curses too soft to carry far. For now, he waits, Trapped in the stillness of shattered light, Where nothing moves, But the ache of a year unwinding.