—a poem where truth arrives late and never apologizes
It hit between the second sip
And thought you’d once allowed to slip.
A flash of gin, all clean and cold—
Like logic sharpened, bright and bold.
The vermouth wept in quiet red,
A velvet thread through what you said.
Cynar followed, slow and grim—
A truth that does not learn to swim.
The bitters bloomed, a walnut stain,
Like smoke rings drawn in windowpane.
You stirred, you stared, the glass replied:
“You’ve always known. You simply lied.”
And in that moment, calm and grim,
The edge you’d dulled was not the rim.
The sip was smooth, the burn was slow—
And now you know… and now you know.
📜 The Bitter Epiphany – The Recipe
- 1½ oz Punt e Mes (or other bitter vermouth)
- 1 oz London Dry Gin
- 1 dash Walnut Bitters
- Garnish: Expressed orange peel, or nothing at all (if you’ve made peace with regret)
Instructions:
Stir gently over cracked ice.
Strain into a chilled coupe or rocks glass.
Serve when the silence gets too honest.
Best consumed on nights when the past clears its throat, and the future just keeps scrolling.