A Toast
That's correct, a toast. A speech, a celebration, a formal congratulations. To those of you who have come and gone, waiters in the busy restaurant that is my life. I may not have always paid my bills, and I may not have always left an appropriate tip (and, in some instances, left a dastardly amount of money to the lazy college grad who didn't deserve it) but my point still stands. This is a toast, a toast to all of you who have long since come and gone. I will not name names, but you know who you are. We've had our season in the sun, our wine has run out, and all we have left is this. A final toast-- to you.
The high noon has washed into a warm sunset. Not nightfall for most, not even twilight. But the chill touch of the moon is washing over our backs. Our time together was good. We laughed, we cried, we planned and played and passed others by; now they pass us by, singular in the crowd where once there was a pair. Life works strange tangents into our lives. But although these days of ours may be over, they are dark chocolate in my mouth, sweet and bitter and all too quickly losing their sensual appeal. This is goodbye, my tart sugar. If life has any sense of decency, we will not meet again; put out your cigarette, let the smolder die.
Our halcyon days burned bright, but now that they are cooled, we have the nostalgia, bitter and clinging like an old smell of childhood long since charred from your mind. And in this final hour, I want to say this, and if you take nothing from this but one meager thing, take this and take it with you: I will miss you, as I have before. With any luck, you will miss me. But this song has long since ended, the crescendo has peaked, and all thats left is for you to raise your glass with me now (and it can be a can or a bottle, of course, I am not one to judge) and toast. Toast to halcyon days burning bright in the backs of our minds, high noons and the restaurant of life bustling customers in and out. Now drink; you deserve it.