Condensation runs down the smooth glass,
the dark surface reflecting the cool hues of the shade.
The wood feels smooth beneath my fingers,
its paint worn away into a grainy pattern where others have sat.
The world sways as I rock,
old joints creaking softly.
Heat dances above the hot grill, distorting all behind it,
Smokes spicy scent wafting into the air.
Out beyond the shade the sun smiles down on the world,
Bathing it in its soft golden light.
A warm breeze tugs at my hair and carries
The sounds of squealing children, their bare feet tinged green.
A droplet rolls off the bottle and falls
It hits the wood of the creaking chair,
Shattering into tiny, shimmering pieces.
Gone.