I re-arranged the shelves
Of yesterday
Only to find that
All the things I thought
I loved
Were lukewarm
And possibly
Sixty seconds away from becoming
Completely sour…
Apparently
My definition of
A cool, dry place
Varies greatly from
What the manufacturer intended…
I blame this ‘slight’
Mishap
On my tired eyes
Disillusioned, lying mind…
Her need for acceptance
As well as ignorance
And a splash of
Aged to near perfection
Wine…
So far
It’s been nothing but a tip of the
Honey-laced glass
Clack of the keys
Click of the mouse
Online
Pseudo-relationship…
Only now…
Typing has turned into a travesty
Her bottle stays empty
And my wrists
Seems to be going
Rather numb…
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