From this start until our last,

it’s hard to get out of our own way.

Yesterday had all its promises, yet

today we have no imagination

still stuck in our stubborn ways.

If words are all that we’ll ever have

let’s make each writing a trigger

back to the days when we were lovers.

That excited joy

having that unquenchable fever

we could have squeezed life in our hands.

Oh but not all is lost,

there are inoculations for such imaginings,

a flu shot perhaps,

to erase this one sickness

away with this aching feeling.

Let there be no more whispers

deep in the nautilus shell.

There are others who have lined up

simply grateful for the chance

to spend an hour in the infirmary

kneeling at the side of the bed.

Gladly accepting sickness from the fever.

Eventually, just like all other things

this quiet solitude will have its price.

One day someone will wake up

and find that these words

are but an empty glass.

2 thoughts on “Empty Glass

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