Two Glasses. One Unused.

Lying on the sheetless mattress

strewn across the apartment floor, I'm

motionless until my right hand hits

the pile of empty beer cans by

the broken venetian blinds in the corner,

and I can barely hear Billie Holiday

singing the same song on repeat out of the

thrift store speakers I bought last week

for half as much as I would have paid.

Awake now, and still thinking of the words

I would say to you right now if you were here.

If I didn't feel that you are happier with him,

then I'd be happier with me, but time heals

all wounds they say. Well they're wrong, and

that's bullshit because sometimes wounds just grow

deeper and linger yellow like dying fireflies

that land on porch railings only magnifying their

demise. I could get up, yet for what purpose.

The air conditioning unit hums beside me,

and the intrusive glare of the headlights

from some drunk teenager outside in the

parking lot looking for a visitor space to

barrel into before he hits an immobile

car makes me feel like yelling at everything

and nothing all at once. I could succumb

to the numbness of isolation now, or drink

another can without regard for tomorrow's

impending headache.

I hate this car hit seagull feeling.

So I fumble on a pair of jeans,

and the oversized blue t-shirt from

McDermot's Irish Restaurant that I got

when we took that trip to Springfield,

Massachusets. The smell of fast food

remnants assaults me as I enter the

kitchen. I twist the cap off of the bottle

of Captain Morgan's, and splash a shallow

layer of Coke into the bottom of a dirty

chipped mug from the open cupboard.

Time doesn't heal all wounds, but liquid can

form a temporary bandage. I know full well

who I learned that from. Two glasses.

One unused.

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