poetry

vessels once filled

I don’t know what they’re talking about. I’ve never seen a woman’s reflection swirling in my whiskey, a lost love staring back at me; when a mumbling-fool’s summer daydream ends, as it has before, when the will is gone, both broken, when I stop asking why, when they become wavy-memory’s gorgeous distortions, I don’t drink at all– the empties, those vessels once filled, only serve to remind.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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