Bottled, 10/15/2014, Michael N. Johns

The stem and bowl fit in his hand,
And felt cool at room temperature,
His head felt as though filled with sand,
As blood spilled through the aperture,

He felt alone, but not lonely,
No words were to be spoken,
His choices, life, his love and he,
His heart completely broken.

The empty bottle dropped, useless,
As light splashed from the darkness.
The rim kissed him, not relieving stress:
A silent dinner with the Mrs.

He thought he ought to say something,
But thought eluded translation,
Her beauty, her tears, her wedding ring,
A palpable devastation.


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