the last of the glass, tips
falls
with not enough in
to spill.
I'd be more than willing to pick it up,
swing my hand over and in
to save a crash -
but so fun after all of this
and that,
to just watch.
Watch it roll. Hear the wide, hollow sound
of glass, singing in its empty belly
a song of wood.
This high table where we both once sat and shared exactly this
I am full
of very good wine, and finally
empty
of you.
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