I drink my beer, trying to forget

 
The illusion of being the ideal person is cruel,
a distant reflection of what I long to love;
like the ice that shatters when it touches the glass,
my heart, intoxicated, never ceases to grieve.
We dance in shadows, in a waltz of promises,
the words are lights that flicker and go;
and between forced laughter, truths are weights,
but half-hearted love doesn't feel the same.
So I drink my beer, trying to forget,
between laughter and forgetfulness, in this place;
and if the ice burns me in its fleeting embrace,
at least tonight, I won't stop dreaming.